Crossing Thresholds
by cyrilandshirley
Summary: Total fluff.  Fantasy ending for Brendan and Ste.
1. Chapter 1

**Crossing Thresholds**

**Part 1: Amy**

They were together. Everyone knew they were together. It wasn't something you talked about. You didn't ask questions, if you valued your face. But everyone knew it.

Brendan and Ste were together.

Almost everyone knew already anyway. Mitzeee knew. She'd had a crack at prising them apart but had long since given up trying to get between them. It was like they were connected by superstrong elastic that just kept snapping them back together like a pair of support knickers, and she was sensible enough to know that you can't argue with the inevitable. Warren knew, but if it was no use to him, he didn't care much one way or the other. He thought it was amusing, but as he had something of a crush on a young blonde of his own, he wasn't really in a position to throw stones. Pete clearly knew, but as long as punches weren't being thrown, he seemed to have learned to live with it. He had a whole other set of issues with Brendan he needed to work out. And Rae knew, but she had put the whole sorry event behind her, and avoided them wherever possible. It had been one of the less productive parts of her life.

Amy had known longest of all. She'd known about them, of course, since the day Ste had come home after staying out all night, and had looked all dishevelled and sheepish, and hadn't wanted to say who it was, but his skin had been glowing, and his body language had been all tender. It hadn't taken her long to get it out of him - it never did. He never really did secrets, did Ste. It had been a bit of a shock to find out that it was a man, but when Ste had gone all shy on her and covered his face with his arms and moaned with embarrassment at fessing it all up so easily, she could see he had it bad, and she was happy for him. She had seen it almost straight away, when she'd gone round to see him at work, and Brendan had come down the stairs, and they had flirted with each other, right in front of her, both happy and relaxed, their eyes finding each other, excluding her even while they spoke to her. And she had seen Ste's face as he watched Brendan's retreating back, the faraway expression in his eyes, and the biting of his bottom lip, and the half smile. And she'd got full confirmation when she had walked in on them in the cellar, and seen them mouth to mouth, apparently just lost in the moment, and she had backed out, fast, her heart thumping, because she was embarrassed to have barged in, and because they just looked so much like they were … falling in love.

But after that, it had all gone wrong. There had been Brendan's visit, when she had made him tea, and thought he was a bit strange. Not a sight she'd ever forget, Brendan sitting there drinking tea out of a teacup and laughing. She had told him he was nice. She cringed to think about it later.

_You so don't know me_, he'd said.

And she didn't. There had been the bruises, spreading their bloody purple marks all over Ste's ribcage. There had been the threats, in the run up to the fire, against her, against the kids. And then in the hospital, after. And then she had had to go away to recover, and when she'd come back, months later, they had still been together, or she thought they were, even though Ste was with Rae and there was a baby on the way. (Foolish, she had thought to herself, sadly, but as this came from the experience of having two herself before she was eighteen, she couldn't really comment). She had taken her life in her hands, and gone to see Brendan. He had given her tea, in return, while the tension crackled between them, and she had asked him to stay away, for the sake of the baby. To her amazement, he agreed. The whole thing had been weird. His shoulders just seemed to drop, his defences coming down for the first time she could remember. He had seemed incredibly unhappy, as if he didn't know how to be any other way. He wasn't hitting Ste, he said, but he didn't know if he loved him, or how to love him, or something like that. He wanted to give him up. Ste was safer without him. She didn't understand where most of it was coming from, but she accepted it, got up and quit while she was ahead.

It didn't work, obviously. Whatever it was that connected them, what she'd seen on the steps outside the club in the autumn sunshine, and down in the cellar, the thing that drew them back to each other, it reasserted itself. Rae had found out, and then lost the baby. Ste had turned up with more bruises, and a split lip, and an apparently broken heart, trying to hide all three under the duvet until she outed him, as she always did. He'd wanted Brendan to go away with him, he'd said, the tears streaking down his face. This had been the result. Her heart had ached for him.

And there had been Pete, dropping all kinds of hints, and something over Rae getting arrested for dealing, but getting let out after all. And a body coming floating to the surface of the pond, in full sight of her kids – her children! - something that she felt had something to do with Brendan, but nothing had ever been pinned on him. And then a massive fight in the village. And then someone attacking Brendan, leaving him in hospital for a while. And then, finally, nothing.

A new chapter. Ste seemed to have decided enough was enough. He had to move on. Amy had heaved a huge sigh of relief. It was what she had wanted for a very long time.

She had been pleased when he had first got together with Noah. This - _this_ was what she had wanted for him. She saw them together in the pub, and he looked happy and smiley, though she wondered when she talked to Ste if it was partly embarrassment, thinking people were looking and talking, but she had kissed him on the cheek and told him not to be silly.

But as time had gone on, she had started to feel … uncomfortable. She had wanted to like Noah, she really had, and he was fine. He didn't go round issuing threats, and sniffing people's scarves, and punching them, which was definitely in his favour. He just seemed to want to enjoy life, it was all clubs and parties and gigs, and she thought Ste needed a bit of that. But Ste had started to become quiet again. He would talk to her, and he seemed suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin, and she hadn't known him like that for a long time. He talked about changing. He hadn't done half the things Noah had done, he said, been on holidays to Ibiza and suchlike. He felt like he knew nothing. The other guys, Noah's mates, made him feel a bit stupid, like he hadn't lived, like he was a wuss because he had to keep bailing out to pick up the kids. And he found it hard to live with the mess. When she went round there, she couldn't help but notice the dishes piled up, the clothes on the floor, and the way he seemed a bit ashamed of it, rushed round picking things up. The flat they shared had never been a paradise, but Ste had always pulled his weight washing the dishes, wiping up, putting the occasional hoover round. With two kids, it would have been a nightmare otherwise. And then that was the last straw. The kids. Noah got a bit bored of having them around. He liked it for about five minutes, telling them jokes and making them laugh, and he was happy enough to go to the park for half an hour and push a few swings, buy them sweets, but then he started to get itchy, kept coming up with other things they could be doing, asking if they could drop them back at Amy's. This was something Amy found hard to forgive. She pursed her lips, and started to wonder how they would get round it.

One day Ste had rung her at home. Did she think he should try to be more sporty?, he asked her, sounding pained. Amy had laughed. Ste might have been more at home in trackies and trainers than in anything else, but apart from watching the football, and racing Leah and Lucas round the park, she would never have described him as sporty.

Her eye strayed to where Lee was being pinned to the carpet and good-humouredly tortured by the two children. She smiled. Lee had many, many faults. God knows she knew that. She had them all, fully catalogued in her head, ready to use on any future occasion that she might need him to do something for her. But none of them ever seemed to matter that much, because she just loved him. For her sins.

"You don't need to change," she said to Ste, over the phone. "I love you the way you are."

"But …" Ste had started, obviously having hitched a ride on the train to self-doubt.

"When you love someone, you take them as they are, good and bad," she said. "I'm sure Noah feels that too," she added, as an afterthought. And hoped it was true.

Brendan was still around. She was aware of him, around the village, though he kept his distance. He seemed a little different, after he came out of hospital. Just as dark, in some ways, but less manic. Like he was contained in his own world. Or learning to contain himself. And strangely, he seemed quite tight with Pete all of a sudden, and she had thought they were enemies. Now, they went round like best buddies, talking quietly, conspiratorial. It was as if Pete was the only one who really seemed to understand him. When she tried to ask Pete about it, using her best subtle questioning technique, putting a cup of tea down on his desk and work, and giving him her best smile, he just winked and said they had sorted things out. He was always a bit mysterious, that Pete, she thought to herself. It was very frustrating. As she had left the office, trying not to show her annoyance, he had called to her at the door, and she had looked round. People could surprise you sometimes, he had said to her. Maybe she should be prepared to see things a bit differently. He looked serious. She smiled, and left, but didn't really understand it.

It wasn't until later that she had seen them. Ste, with Brendan. They weren't even doing anything. They were just standing in the alley, talking. She had pulled back and waited round the corner, feeling awkward, and then peeked. They were looking at each other too intently to notice anyone else anyway. They were silhouetted against the light at the other end. They just stood there, looking at each other, close, and talking quietly. Then Brendan bent his head and said something into Ste's ear. And Ste had looked up, and nodded. And then Brendan had kissed him, and left.

So it was all still going on then. She remembered this feeling. Exactly the same feeling she'd had when she walked in on them kissing in the cellar. That feeling that it was something very private, very connected, that really no one else was a part of, that needed to work its own way through.

She had had to walk away for a bit, and think it over. Part of her felt a sense of disappointment, that Ste would slide back to that, the man who had made him so unhappy, and hurt him so much. Why, she wondered? Why did he keep doing it? But she knew the answer really, because she had done it herself for long enough, and it was held in the way they stood, close, and looked at each other, and communicated without touching. He loved him. And sometimes, you just have to see love through to the end, let it tell its own story, and nothing anyone else can say will make a difference.

She decided to let it lie. God knows, she thought, she was sick of being stuck between them, always being drawn in like she was some kind of earthing mechanism, a buffer who could deal with the excess electricity which always seemed to threaten to consume them. She wondered exactly when she had been cursed to be a player in the big Ste and Brendan story – all she wanted was a quiet life really, specially after losing Sarah. She had never asked for any of this, to play the diva, the drama queen. She would have been more than happy with Lee, Ste and the kids, and her job. God knows she had more than enough trouble with Lee's own particular baggage, in the shape of an insane ex-fiancee who wanted his balls for earrings and had made the pursuit of them the main focus of her life.

But it seemed like it was a cross she had to bear, because she was the only one who could see what was right in front of everyone. She noticed every miserable look on Ste's face. When he was quiet, moody. When he was far away, with a remote expression on his face. When he suddenly got unreliable and she had to nag him. There were no bruises, but there are other ways to hurt people, she thought, or to hurt yourself.

And they had refused to bloody well leave her out of it.

The beginning of the end had really come when Brendan had turned up at their door one night, drunk. Or partly drunk. She had dragged herself out of bed, wrapping a dressing gown around her, to answer the door when she heard a very distinctively Irish voice outside the door.

_Stephen … Stephen …_

She had pulled the door open so fast that he had almost fallen into the room. He seemed to have been leaning his forehead against the door.

She sighed, deeply, surprised at how little she was scared of him now, which was strange, because Lee was cowering in the bedroom and had begged her not to answer the door. It wasn't that she didn't believe Brendan capable of hurting people, she did. She just no longer believed that he would hurt her. As if she had some kind of position, because she was the mother of Ste's children. She was starting to understand some of what went on in his head, she thought. God knows she'd had enough time to study it.

They had stared at each other.

"What do you want Brendan?" she had asked him. "It's the middle of the night. And you're drunk."

"Am I?" he asked, nodding, and looking unconcerned. "You always did notice … everything, didn't ya? Amy …"

She had eyeballed him, and he had tried to pull himself together.

"Is Stephen here?"

"You know he's not," she said to him. "He sleeps over at Noah's most nights now."

She watched his face, to see how he reacted, but he just nodded, vaguely. And then looked slightly confused.

"Noel?" He spat the word out, like a sneer.

"Noah," she said, disapproving.

"Oh," he said, "that fella."

"Ste's boyfriend," she said.

He had just pulled a face, and made a clicking sound. "Yer," he said. "Boyfriend." He sounded like the word was choking him. She had just looked, again.

"Oi'll just go round there then …" he had started to say.

"You will not," she had said, spontaneously, wanting to save Ste from it, and grabbing his arm. He looked down at her hand, a bit surprised, but didn't shake it off. "You'll come in, and I'll make you a coffee, but don't wake the kids." She leant towards him, her voice low, and emphasised it. She was surprised even at herself. She'd been meaning to send him packing, but she thought if she could sober him up, it might be safer for everyone. And she was actually a bit curious, to know what was going on in his head. Had Ste dumped him again?

He had lurched, slightly unsteady, over the threshold, holding on to the door frame.

"Aw," he said, "the kids … mustn't wake Leah and Lucas." And then he put his finger to his lips. "Ssshhhhhh."

She had rolled her eyes and gone to put the kettle on, thinking she must have had a brainstorm. When she took the coffee through to the living room, she found him wandering round, picking things up, examining them, as if for traces of Ste, and putting them down again. His eye had rested on a picture of Ste with the kids that she had taken at the zoo. He looked down at it in his hand, for a moment, and rubbed it with his thumb, gentle. She went over and gave him the coffee. He grunted something like thanks, but barely stopped looking at the picture.

She felt sorry for him. But she also felt disturbed. Because everything that she'd wanted for Ste, for him to be happy, and loved, and cared for, wasn't really working out. She wondered if maybe, she had been thinking about this all from the wrong end. Or if she _had_ been right, and maybe things had changed, and everything had flipped around on an axis, and now suddenly she was in the wrong after all, without even knowing how she'd got there. She remembered what Pete had said to her, about being prepared to see things differently. But it was a mess, all this, wasn't it? He was drunk, and violent, and horrible. But strange then how he just stood there, quietly, drinking his coffee, and nodding, and looking at the picture, and asking about Leah, and Lucas. And she asked him tentatively about his own kids, relieved that he hadn't come round for some massive psychological confrontation, and he talked about them a bit, like it was some kind of bizarre two a.m. coffee morning for single parents. She could see that he missed them. And then he knocked back the last of the coffee, put the picture down. and seemed embarrassed, as if he was finally sobering up enough to realise what he had done.

"I'll go," he said, awkwardly, pointing at the door, and heading there. But he turned at the last minute. "Will you tell Stephen?" he said, wincing a bit.

She shook her head. "Nope." Because she couldn't see what could be gained by telling Ste his semi-drunk ex had come round for a Mother and Baby chat in the middle of the night. He would go mental, and that was the last thing they all needed.

Brendan had nodded, and headed off into the night, and she had gone back to bed, reassuring Lee that she had seen off the danger, even though he now seemed to have persuaded himself that he was the one protecting her, and wrapped her in a cuddle. As he descended into gentle snores again, his arm thrown across her, she had looked at the ceiling, and tried to puzzle it out. She wondered if maybe now, it was all over. Ste had broken it off finally, and Brendan was trying to accept it. Strange how the moment she told herself this, she knew it wasn't true.

It was a week or so after this that they had gone out for a meal with Ste and Noah together. And she had watched Ste pushing his food around the plate, absent minded, while Lee and Noah amused each other and barely noticed. He looked sad, she thought, like you do when you are stuck in something and aren't sure how to end it, but know you have to. She wondered which bit of his life was stuck, which bit needed ending. And then he had looked up, and his eye had been caught by something behind Lee's shoulder, outside. Amy watched as his face softened, and lit up, as he followed the figure with his eyes. It was the kind of look you give someone when you are in love. She turned her head, and saw Brendan walking past. At first, it seemed as if Brendan would just walk on by. But for some reason, he seemed to slow, and hesitate, and turn his head towards the restaurant window. She saw that he saw Ste, looking at him. And a glance was exchanged. It was like they were both holding their breath. And she thought he almost smiled. But then he looked down again. And seemed to make himself walk off. And Ste's face fell.

Oh, for flip's sake, she thought to herself. Am I really going to have to get in here and help them sort this, one way or another? She looked at Ste across the table. Nudged his foot with hers. He looked up at her.

"You daft bugger," she said to him, sighing, shaking her head.

He laughed, but looked uneasy. And still sad.

"Who's a daft bugger?" Noah asked, suddenly realising there was another conversation going on.

Amy smiled at him. "I am," she said. "I told the babysitter we'd get back in fifteen minutes."

"Did we?" Lee asked, but she kicked him, sharp, under the table, and he keened a bit, but shut up.

"Yes," she said, "so we'd better get back. And I need to sort out some arrangements for the weekend. Don't mind if I borrow Ste for a little while, do you?"

"No," Noah said, looking disconcerted, because there wasn't really much else she had left him that he could say.

So they had left Noah to go home, she had sent Lee off to the pub and taken Ste back to the flat, paid off the babysitter, and sat him down.

"So, what's these arrangements?" he asked her, rumpling his brow. She sighed, again. He could be incredibly obtuse, sometimes.

She sat down next to him.

"You and Brendan," she said. He blushed, wildly. "You're not over, are you?"

"Amy, don't," he said, not making any attempt to deny it, but pleading, his face rumpled into a pained expression. "This is hard enough as it is."

"What is?" she asked him, more gently. "Is he still hurting you?"

Ste shook his head. "No."

"So what's the problem, then? Because you still love him, and you're making yourself miserable over it. You need to sort it, one way or another."

Ste seemed almost at a loss for words. "Things have … things have gone on. I dunno … he's done … things."

He struggled. He could hardly tell her that Brendan had killed Danny, something only he, and Brendan, and Warren knew about. Something that had scared him, petrified him, into doing some terrible things himself. And then into ending it. And then that Brendan had come to him again, weeks later, and they had had a confrontation, some shouting, and some pushing and shoving, mostly from him, and Brendan had held his wrists to fight him off, and had told him suddenly that he'd done it for him. That it was all for him. To protect him. And Ste hadn't wanted to hear it, and had run off. Next day, he had pretended to be sick, stayed in bed under the duvet, sending Noah off to work, and then getting up, and going for a long walk, and thinking about everything that had gone on between him and Brendan.

Was it possible, he wondered, sitting alone on a bench in the park, to still love someone who had killed someone else? Even if you knew they had done it for you? Someone you had hurt in return?

The answer was yes. He had always known what Brendan was capable of, always. And he was no angel himself. They had both done bad things, some worse than others. But he still loved him. He didn't know how to stop.

He had gone round to Brendan's flat, the place where he now lived on his own, and they had just looked at each other for a long moment, both possibly wondering if they were going to start fighting again. But then Ste had just taken his life in his hands, and put a hand on his neck, and pulled him into a kiss. And he had heard a kind of grunt come out of Brendan's mouth, into his own, felt him stiffen for a moment, and then felt him kiss back, his arms going round him. Ste had found himself sort of jumping into Brendan's arms, wrapping his legs around his waist, and letting himself be carried backwards into the bedroom. Where they had made love, for hours.

"What things?" Amy broke into his thoughts, now. "He's no saint, is he? You've always known that. But it doesn't seem to stop you loving him."

Ste had just shaken his head. He knew it was true. This was nothing to do with anything Brendan had done now. He had realised when they went to bed that there was almost nothing, apart from hurting him or the people he cared about, that he couldn't forgive Brendan for. It was more about what he hadn't done.

"I don't think he can be with me," he said. He took a deep breath. "And I think unless he can find a way to be with me, he'll never be able to promise that he won't hurt me again."

Amy found herself looking at him with some surprise. So this was what it came down to. Whether Brendan could accept Ste in his life. And Ste knew it, had got there all on his own, over all these long painful months. She looked at him with real respect. Ste had walked away until Brendan could be with him.

"What's he said?" she asked, more gently.

"That he has some stuff he needs to sort out," Ste had said. "He needs some time."

"What stuff?" she asked him. "How much time?"

"I dunno … telling people I think. Like Cheryl. And I don't know how long."

"And you broke off with him until then?"

Ste nodded, miserable, remembering lying in bed, Brendan stroking his hair. And then making himself get up, and Brendan watching him wander naked round the room as he got himself dressed. And then kissing Brendan, and telling him to call him when he was ready. And then walking away, pretending to be a lot braver than he was feeling.

"You've got things of your own to sort out," she said to him. "It's not fair on Noah."

Ste hung his head. "I know that."

She nodded. "And you and Brendan, if he came to you, you'd talk?"

He looked at her, amazed. "I thought you didn't want me and Brendan together!"

It was true. She hadn't. She'd fought it for ages. But some things, you can't fight. "I want you to be happy, Ste," she said. "And you're not happy, are you?"

He shook his head again. She hated seeing him so sad.

"I dunno Amy …" he seemed tired. "We get together, it's always the same …"

She looked at him, sceptically. "That's the problem isn't it? You need a bit less of the same, and a bit more of the talking."

He laughed, but it didn't sound very happy, and put his hands over his face. She squeezed his arm, and decided she'd get no more out of him that night.

The next day, she went to see Brendan at the club. He was in the office. He looked up as she closed the door behind her. He looked disconcerted, but he covered it well. He threw his pen down on the desk. They hadn't seen each other since the night he'd got drunk, and he sure as hell wasn't going to mention it if she didn't.

"Am I putting the kettle on again?" he asked her. "Cos this is becoming a habit."

"No," she said. "It's all right. This'll only take a minute."

She sat down on the sofa and perched, her hands on her knees. There was a pause, while he looked at her, eyebrows raised, expectant. She cleared her throat.

"Will you hurt him?" she asked. There was a pause.

"No," he said.

It was a direct answer. It sounded completely sincere. There was another silence, while she absorbed it.

"Do you love him?"

"Amy …"

But she was in no mood to be batted away.

"You said before that you didn't know what it meant to love him. Do you know what it means now?"

He was impatient, uncomfortable.

"Jesus, I don't have to …"

But he stopped. Ran a hand over his forehead. Looked all round the office. Then back at her.

"Do you love him, Brendan?" she asked him, as gently as she could.

He looked into the middle distance, thoughtful. And then nodded. There was a moment of quiet.

She got up.

"OK, we're done now," she said.

He looked at her, eyebrows raised. "Are we?" he asked.

She turned to him. "Yes. It's fine."

"It is?"

"Yes."

He nodded, seemed surprised, but satisfied. "Good."

She stopped at the door, and turned back to Brendan for a second.

"It better had be," she said. They exchanged a look. "I'll let myself out."

And she walked out of the office and closed the door behind her, leaving him to his thoughts. She had a feeling of them having sorted out some unfinished business. That she was maybe playing her last cards here. But there was one more thing to do.

She arranged to go away for the weekend. It wasn't hard to do. She took Lee and the kids up to Manchester to spend some time with her Dad. It suited everyone, because Mike had been saying for ages that he wanted to meet Lee properly. He had joked and said he wanted to check him out for latent homosexual tendencies, though Amy wondered if he was partly serious.

She said nothing to Ste, and sent him a message to come and meet her at the flat. She sent another message to Brendan to come and talk to her there at the same time. And she left them to it, with a note on the table that just said TALK.

She had no idea if it would work. As she watched the kids playing with Mike, that weekend, and fondly watched Lee trying not to embarrass himself, she wondered what was happening. And what she'd done, if she had made a terrible mistake, and she would get back to find Ste in tears, or desperate, or hurt, or hating her for it.

When they got back, late on the Sunday, there was no one at the flat - it seemed completely quiet, and she felt a sense of disappointment. What had she been expecting? To come back and find Ste sitting on Brendan's lap on the sofa? She shook herself. But as Lee fixed the kids drinks in the kitchen, she couldn't resist a peek inside Ste's room. She wandered in, pushing the door to behind her, and looked around. The bed was definitely very rumpled, the curtains half drawn, though that could just mean he had been sleeping there. Ste's bag was on the floor, with some personal things in, so he had definitely moved out of Noah's, at least. She felt relieved.

She opened the doors of the wardrobe, and ran her hands affectionately along the familiar clothes. It was good to see them back there, she thought. And then she stopped.

Alongside Ste's hoodies and polo shirts was hanging something she hadn't seen there before.

It was Brendan's leather jacket.

She smiled.

She reclosed the door, gently. And left the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Crossing Thresholds**

**Part 2: Cheryl**

It was ironic that the person Brendan was closest to in all the world was one of the last people to find out. He hadn't had the chance to tell her, in the end.

She had had plenty of chances to find out. Rae had told her. Trev had sort of tried, in a roundabout way. Even Danny (rest his soul) had hinted. But she just hadn't been able to see it. She could see that he cared about Ste. A lot. But not that he _cared_ about him. Not that way. Maybe it was because she was so close, she thought later. She hadn't been able to see what was right under her own nose.

The first she knew anything was different was when Brendan came barging in through the doors of the flat, late on the Sunday afternoon. He wasn't alone. Ste was with him, slumped, supported by an arm thrown around Brendan's neck. Warren was behind them. There was what looked like blood on Ste's T shirt. Suddenly, the flat seemed invaded by danger, and the hum and buzz of adrenalin, and fear.

It was one of those moments when the world changes. She had stood there, her mouth slightly open, rooted to the spot, in shock. Somewhere in the background she could hear Ste whimpering as Brendan lowered him onto the sofa, and Brendan's voice, stressed, but reassuring.

_It's OK … it's OK … you're OK …_

She finally found her voice.

"What in the name of God is going on?"

* * *

They had been seen.

It had gone according to Amy's plan, up to a point. Ste had left Noah. It couldn't go on. Noah had come back as he was packing his bag, and had been hurt, wanting to know what he had done wrong. And then had turned a bit nasty, asking if he was going back to the ex who had given him all the trouble. It had been painful. Ste had told him he was moving back in with Amy and the kids. But that he was still in love with someone else, and it wasn't fair to stay.

"I'm sorry," he had said, and zipped up his bag, and left, feeling sad, but sure he was finally doing the right thing.

When he turned up at the door of the flat, expecting to see Amy, he had had his bag in his hand. And there was Brendan instead, waiting, leaning against the wall beside the door. His heart had risen to his throat. Brendan had looked him up and down, almost amused.

"Going on holiday?" he asked him.

"Don't start," Ste had said, bitterly, and let himself and Brendan into the flat with his keys. "What are you doing here, Brendan?"

"Same as you, probably," Brendan had said, following him in. "Amy makes damn good tea."

But then Ste had seen the note on the table, and realised they had been set up, and felt a wave of embarrassment. Brendan had looked less than completely surprised, as the initial realisation sank in. It was more than a little bit awkward. But Ste had turned around to look at him. He held up the note.

"So, are we gonna talk then?" He had given Brendan his stubborn look. It was equal parts annoying and adorable.

Brendan had shrugged. "What do you want to talk about, Stephen?"

Ste had felt slightly at a loss. Where do you start? Tell me about your whole past, who you are, what made you like this, what made you hurt me, what made you make me fall in love with you, why can't you be with me? They had done some of that already, when he went back to him, when he was still supposed to be with Noah. And Brendan had started to open up. But he could see it was still hard for him, as if there was always something he was holding back. But they could sort all that. There was only one thing he really needed to know. After that, if he got the answer he needed, they could sort anything.

He stepped up. He took a very deep breath. He looked at him, direct.

"Do you love me?"

Brendan's mouth dropped slightly open. It was a direct attack, where he was most vulnerable. He had never said it. He had hoped that Ste would know he did, after the last time. Why did the little bastard always need everything spelling out?

"Stephen …"

"Do you love me, Brendan?"

There had been a pause, while he struggled with the words, which just wouldn't seem to form in his mouth, no matter how loudly they had been running through his head in the last few months.

Ste had shaken his head, disappointed, bitter. "Just go, then," he'd said, and made to move away. And Brendan had felt his own hand reach out and grab his arm, and pull him back, and his hands had gone into Ste's hair, tipping his face up.

"Of course I love you, ya stupid …"

For a second, there had been only the rushing of blood in his ears, almost a blank sensation, as he registered the fact that Ste's lips had fallen open and seemed very red. And then he had kissed him.

They had gone to bed again, obviously. Not quite the order Amy had had in mind. Sex first, then talking. Then more sex. Then sleeping. Then eating toast and drinking tea in bed. Some fooling around. Then more sex. It had gone on most of the night and into Sunday morning. Touching, holding, rolling, riding, licking, sucking, stroking, kissing, and fucking, until it was hard to tell which way was up, but they seemed to find it anyway.

_I love you_, Ste had heard in his ear, low, feeling Brendan's body push his wide apart, feeling himself dissolving and reforming around Brendan's body, the friction between them building to explosive levels, _oh fuck … Stephen …_

Or maybe the _oh fuck_ had come from him. It was genuinely hard to tell sometimes, there was such a lot of breathing and panting and grabbing and moaning going on. And then there was nothing but pure mind-bending sensation and a conversation between two bodies with no words, but a lot of meaning.

The talking came after, when they lay in the early hours, muscles relaxed and skin filmed with sweat. He would tell Cheryl, he said, his fingers playing in the curve where Ste's neck met his shoulder. He just had to find the right moment. Ste had felt his pulse race, just hearing it, though he still didn't really allow himself to believe in it. He lay with his head on Brendan's chest, and listened to his heart beat, instead, and nuzzled his lips into his chest hair. Time would tell, he guessed. And the time was now. It would be today, or never. There was a feeling of finality about it. That this was the last time they would tread round this circle.

In the morning, Brendan had got up, dressed, and gone back home to shower, because he liked a strong jet, and he said the one in the flat was the most pathetic excuse for a shower he'd ever seen, and he would have to get something done about it. He left his jacket behind, saying he'd come back when he'd seen Cheryl. Ste had pulled on a few clothes, and gone with him to the door. And before he left, Brendan had turned round, put a hand under his chin, and suddenly kissed him, in plain view of anyone who might have been passing, as if it was an impulse that he just had to try. Ste had just been aware of Brendan's mouth, and his moustache, and the fact that he ended it with a slight smile, and then a gruff cough, as if he was embarrassed to be caught smiling, and then he was watching him go. He smiled to himself, and went back inside. And they were seen.

Danny's men. They weren't the brightest bulbs on the Christmas tree, but they had finally worked out who was responsible. And they watched. And they saw where Brendan was weak. And when Ste was showered, and dressed, and went out to the shop to get supplies, they took him.

Brendan had been walking through the village on his way to Cheryl's when he got the call. It interrupted his thoughts. He had already been feeling almost surreal. Was he really on his way to tell his sister that he was sleeping with a man? That he had done, for a long time? That he had no idea what that made him? That he had kept it from her, all these years, no matter how much he loved her? That he hadn't wanted any of this to be true, but now it was, and she had to know? That there was someone he was in a relationship with? Someone she already knew? A relationship. Christ, was that really what this was? Or could be? He focussed on the memory of Stephen's body, as he headed round there. Them, lying together, talking. He guessed it must be. But he wondered somewhere in his head, as he put one foot in front of another, if he could really do this. His palms were damp. He hoped to God Cheryl still had that half bottle of whiskey he'd left behind when he'd moved out because he felt like he damn well needed it.

He put the phone to his ear. He didn't recognise the number.

"Yeah?" he said.

_We've got something you want gayboy. Wait for instructions._

And then Ste's voice, in the background, scared. "Brendan …"

And then dead air.

The world had stopped. He had looked around. He had wanted to burn things, kill people. His heart beat, strangely slow, but almost painful, and getting faster. _Thump … thump … thump thump._ People moved around him, in slow motion.

He needed to move, but he was rooted to the spot. He needed to move. He needed to move … now.

He had headed straight to the club and thrown things around in a frenzy, looking for weapons he could use. He needed to get tooled up. He didn't keep that kind of thing lying around, but he knew where he could get hold of them. His hands shook, as he tried to dial a number into his phone.

That was when Warren had come in. He had looked amused for about a second, and then realised that it was serious.

"Danny's men …" Brendan had said, still throwing things around. "They've got Stephen …"

It hadn't taken Warren long to realise they would have to sort it together. He whipped out his own phone and it took him precisely thirty minutes to sort out supplies, and come back with two guns. He was useful like that.

"Know how to use it?" he asked, throwing one of the weapons for Brendan to catch. "Or do you usually stick to hammers?"

Brendan had just given him a withering look, as he checked the catch. It was hardly the time for joking.

They had taken the next call as they got ready to leave. It gave them the location. Brendan was to come alone.

"Sure you're ready for this Foxy?" Brendan had asked him, as they headed for the car that Warren had somehow managed to procure at short notice. "Could get messy."

Warren had just grinned. "Not me they're after is it? As long as you're not asking me to wear a fake tache, dodgy leathers, and pose as you, I'm laughing."

Brendan looked at him, again. "It's always … so good to know you've got my back."

Warren shrugged, and pulled open the car door. "Hey, as long as I'm minding your back, at least I'm not stabbing you in it."

"That's … comforting," Brendan said, and got in.

In the end, it had got messy. Brendan had had to present himself at the storage bay of some godforsaken warehouse, knowing they could finish him right there and then, but Warren had already been in position, and he gave him covering fire as he dived for shelter and then ran for the connecting door to the offices.

It hadn't taken him long to find Ste, while Warren kept them busy. He was tied to a chair, with tape over his mouth. He had whimpered and cried out when Brendan peeled back the tape.

"I thought …" he said, as Brendan cut through the ties on his hands, "I thought …"

"Ya didn't think I'd leave ya, did ya?" Brendan said, trying to gee him up, as he freed him.

He checked him over, fast. "Did they hurt you?" His heart felt like a vice in his chest.

Ste tried to look brave, not very successfully, and shook his head, but he could tell they had taken at least a few slaps at his face. His mind went red-black at the thought. He put his hands either side of Ste's face, and looked into his eyes.

"You need to trust me now, right? Just do as I say, and follow me?"

Ste had looked terrified, and nodded, and Brendan had kissed him, fast, on the forehead, and then they made a run for it.

What happened next was confusing. The noise of gunfire was ricocheting around the warehouse. At one point Ste had cried out and fallen, and for a terrible second, Brendan had thought he had been caught in some crossfire, but it seemed to have been a near miss, and Ste just set his jaw, said he was OK, he was OK, and they kept running. But not before Brendan had stood up and given the shooter returning fire, full in the chest.

Somehow, they made it out the back to where Warren had left the car. Brendan had revved up the engine, and they had seen Warren emerge round the corner, still firing behind him. As he legged it towards the passenger door, they heard the sound of sirens approaching.

"Step on it then Brady," Warren said, panting.

"Who called the cops?" Brendan had asked him.

Warren just shrugged. "I thought they could come and sweep up the mess. There's at least two down in there, maybe three. Now will you fucking move this car or are we catching the bus?"

They had headed back to the village, dumped the car in a back street, and taken Ste back to the shelter of Cheryl's flat, in case Brendan's had been targeted.

Cheryl. Cheryl would take care of him. He'd been on his way to see her anyway, Brendan thought. Might as well carry on. It was even more surreal now. It was more than just his palms sweating.

But she had to find out some way.

* * *

Cheryl rushed over and stood by the sofa, where Brendan had lowered Ste so carefully. Ste looked as white as a sheet.

"What's happened?" she asked, aghast.

Brendan glanced at her. "Nothing … stupid … just – Stephen got attacked."

"Attacked?" She looked at him, sitting there, fragile. He always seemed to be getting jumped.

"Yeah," Brendan said. "The police are dealing with it."

But his attention was caught by Ste. He had put his hand to his side and now held out his hand, shaking.

"Brendan … I think I'm bleeding …" He looked terrified.

Cheryl watched as Brendan dropped to his knees and frantically pushed up Ste's T shirt. He pressed his hand against Ste's side, examined the wound, and then looked up into his face.

"It's OK," he said, "It's OK, it's just a cut, must have been when you fell. You're OK." Ste just nodded, and shivered.

He turned to Cheryl. "Can you get the first aid kit sis? I think we're gonna need it."

"He needs to go to a hospital, Brendan," she said, appalled at the blood, and the paleness of Ste's face.

"No," Brendan said, and there was something about his voice that stopped her. He looked at her. "No hospitals."

She knew, of course, that there was more to it. Things that they weren't telling her. But she had spent her whole life turning a blind eye when she needed to, when she was asked to. She wasn't going to stop now. She just nodded, and brought the kit.

It was awkward, having Warren there, hovering, watching. She hated having him as a partner, after what he'd done to her, but she mainly left it up to Brendan to deal with him these days, and she had been with Trev for a while anyway, now he was separated from his wife. She wondered what the hell Warren was doing there. He put a hand, briefly, on Brendan's shoulder.

"If he's all right, mate, I'd better shift. I need to sort out the transport. Appointment with the fire department, know what I'm saying?"

Brendan had just nodded, and they had exchanged a look, and Warren had slipped out through the door, apparently checking around first to see if anyone had seen him leaving.

Cheryl now stood, feeling useless, and watched as Brendan poured antiseptic solution onto some gauze and pressed it against the cut on Ste's side. He took hold of Ste's hand and placed it over the bandage, and told him to press.

And there was something about it. She didn't really remember ever seeing Brendan like that before. It was very intimate, and caring. Not just the way he put his hands on Ste's side, but the way they looked at each other as he did, as if Brendan was Ste's lifeline, as if everything would be OK if he could just keep looking and Brendan would still be there. She wondered if Ste was in deep shock. Because Brendan just kept saying, _you're OK, you'll be OK_, and Ste kept nodding, and looking at him. And then she wondered if Brendan was in shock, as well, and was getting just as much reassurance from Ste. There was a connection between them, that she'd often noticed, that seemed to vibrate, that no one else was a part of.

She was lost in thought almost, when Brendan rested back on his heels, and stood up.

"We need to get you properly cleaned up," he said to Ste, and helped him get up off the sofa. They started to head towards the stairs to take Ste to the bathroom.

"I'll make the bed up fresh in Lynsey's room," she said to Brendan, as he passed her. "He should stay here tonight, and Lynsey's away."

"No need," he said. "He'll be in my room."

She paused. Of course. Brendan would give up his own room for Ste. He was good like that.

"I'll make Lynsey's bed up for you, then," she said.

"No," he said. He paused, and looked at her, his hand still on Ste's shoulder, ready to steer him upstairs. "I'll be in with him."

Cheryl hesitated, and opened her mouth. "Oh," was all that came out of it. Did Brendan really need to do that, stand guard over him like that? She looked from Brendan to Ste, and back again. Took in Ste, just standing there, meek, almost unaware of the conversation going on. Took in Brendan's hand on Ste's shoulder. Ste, who was gay. Or had been seeing that other young guy, anyway.

"O … Oh," she heard herself say again, although her brain was still groping for something that her mouth seemed to have reached before it.

Suddenly, Brendan let go of Ste and looked her square in the face.

"Did you really not know, Chez?" he asked her. His voice sounded low, and soft, and intense. Almost like he was pleading.

There was a very strange sense in her head of the world flipping inside out. Like she was Alice going through the looking glass, and on the other side, everything was similar, but different. The wrong way round. Or maybe the right way round, and she had just never seen it from that side.

Of course. Yes. Of course. Part of her had known. Part of her had known all along. But this is the way it was, with the Brady men. They told you the version they wanted you to know, and you accepted it. You learned to turn a blind eye to the rest, you always did, if you wanted everyone to stay happy. She had closed her eyes, because she knew that he wanted her to. But she had known, nonetheless. She was aware she was still staring at him. No doubt she had her daft face on, a voice in her head told her.

He leant in to her. "I'm sorry. I was gonna tell you, sis. I was. I just ran out of time, I guess."

She felt herself nodding. "OK," she said. "OK." It didn't seem to make much sense, but it was all she could manage.

He dipped his head across and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, almost apologetic, and then started to steer Ste upstairs, his hand back on his shoulder again, reassuring.

Cheryl watched them go and then turned to the sink. Everything seemed a little different. As if it was in slow motion. Almost absently, numbly, she flicked on the kettle. She'd have a cup of tea. While she waited for the kettle to start boiling, her eye was caught by the picture pinned to the fridge of the two of them together. Her, teasing and affectionate, kissing him. Him, remote and grumpy, looking at the camera like a martyr, but loving it anyway. Her brother, the brother she adored, the brother she had looked up to all her life, had just told her he was gay. Or she thought he had. Brendan. Gay.

Fuck it, she thought, I need something stronger. She abandoned the kettle, and went in search of the whiskey. She poured herself a massive slug, sat down on the stairs, and started to knock it back.

While she sat there, she listened out, suddenly very aware of everything around her. She could hear the shower running, in the bathroom. She could hear two voices, Ste's a bit soft, and shocked. And Brendan's, low, still reassuring. Jesus Mary and all the Saints, her brother had a male lover.

How long, she wondered? She felt slightly light-headed, as if she was reeling. Just now? Or others, before? She started to remember. Was it possible to remember things you'd never known, or never let yourself know? She was thinking about Macca. About Eileen. She wondered if it went back as far as that? Or further? Good God, had he kept this secret from her his whole life? She wondered what it had cost him.

But this was crazy, right? She laughed, short, dry. Maybe she was just getting this whole thing out of proportion. Maybe it was just a little crush or something, and none of that had ever happened. Maybe it was all Ste. Brendan was a pretty impressive guy, and he hero-worshipped him, she could see that. Maybe Brendan was just playing along with that.

At that moment, she heard the bathroom door open. And she looked up the stairwell, unobserved, and saw them again. Ste was walking ahead. He was completely naked apart from a towel around his hips, his hair wet. There was a fresh bandage applied to his side. And behind him was Brendan, still steering him down the corridor to the bedroom by a hand on the shoulder.

There was no way. There was no way, she realised, as she heard the bedroom door close, shutting them in together, that this was a crush. Some little folly of poor Ste's. If Brendan didn't return it and more, there was no way he would take that lad into the bathroom and strip off his clothes, and wash him and dress his wounds, and then take him to his bed.

It was real. Brendan was gay.

She looked down at what was left of the whiskey in her glass, and knocked it back in one.

Christ. She took a huge breath, and sighed it out, puffing out her cheeks. This was really going to have to wait until tomorrow. She supposed they would have to talk about it. She wondered if she was actually dreading it more than he might have been. He had never really opened up to her, not properly. She was close as anything to him, they had always said that, they had pulled little fingers and thumb wrestled and said nothing would get between them. But the older they'd got, she realised, the less she'd known about him. And she hadn't even known until now that she hadn't known. She had no idea what she was feeling right now. Stupid, partly. And excluded, as if she had never really been a part of his life at all, the way he had with her. And … was she angry, as well?

She put the glass down, and took herself quietly up the stairs to her own room. On the landing, she paused. There was barely any noise coming from Brendan's room. Maybe just a low sound of Brendan's voice, soft. She hardly wanted to think what was happening. Not that, probably not that, Ste was too shocked tonight, and probably sore. But she wondered if Brendan was lying on the bed with him. Or in it. With his arm round Ste until he fell asleep, like he had done to her once or twice when they were very little.

She went in to her own room, got straight into bed, and for some reason pulled the duvet over her head. And let the whiskey take her off into sleep.

The next morning, she was feeling braver, or thought she was. There was neither sight nor sound of them, so she showered, and dressed, and applied her lipstick in the mirror. Warpaint. But she caught sight of herself, and lowered her hand. She tried to square her shoulders. How was this going to go?

_Oh, hiya Brendan. You're gay then._

No.

_So, Bren. You kept this secret from me for your whole life, and now I find out you've been sleeping with the barman, one of my best friends, for months and months. What the frig?_

No.

_Brendan. You're my brother, and I'll always love you. But I wish you'd told me._

She sighed. That's what she wanted to say. No doubt it would come out all goofy, the way it often did when she felt a bit awkward, but that was what she would aim for. No problem.

She stepped outside her room. And hesitated.

For the first time that morning, there was a noise, voices, coming from Brendan's room, opposite. It sounded a bit like a moan. That formed itself into a name.

_Brendan …_

She wondered if Ste was all right, if he needed something. And then she heard a returning moan, and then a cry, higher, and some creaking. And some more moaning, some of it lower, growly. And then some cries, higher, coming in staccato bursts.

_Oh … oh … mmm … oh … oh god …_

She felt heat flaring up somewhere from the back of her neck and rushing over her scalp. She found herself scurrying down the stairs, flipping open her phone.

"Trev … can I come and stay round at yours after work tonight? … Why? … Cos I miss you, you eejit …"

She rapidly scribbled a note which said _I'll cover your shifts next couple of days. Make yourselves at home, _and stuck it to the door of the fridge with a magnet, next to the photo of her and Brendan together. The Brendan she'd thought she'd known.

She couldn't totally work out if she was being generous or cowardly. She settled on generous and understanding. And she headed for the front door before she could hear any more of the now unmistakeable yells and grunts of pleasure coming from upstairs, and closed it behind her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Crossing Thresholds**

**Part 3: Trevor**

It was only when Cheryl had been at Trevor's place for two days and nights and was starting to talk about buying new knickers rather than go home to get some more, that he realised something was really wrong, and he needed to tackle her about it. They were lying next to each other in bed, panting, after making some noise of their own, when he propped himself up on one elbow and looked down, contemplating her. He thought she was lovely, and wondered when he had got so lucky, though they weren't what he would call serious. He didn't think so anyway. It was just nice. It was lovely, actually. He rumpled his brow.

"So what are you really doing here Chez? Cos I love having you here, but last time I checked, you had a home of your own."

She opened her mouth to say she'd missed him, but he gave her a look. He could read her too well. There was what seemed a significant pause. Then she wrinkled her nose.

"Brendan's got someone … _new_," she said, drawling over the word a bit.

He shrugged. "So what? That's good isn't it? Keeps him out of my face." Because he knew what Brendan could be like when he was grumpy and not getting any. He had learnt the hard way. To be brutally honest, his own opinion of Cheryl's brother was that he was verging on dangerous. There was something about him that he just couldn't work out at all, but sometimes you didn't know if he wanted to hit you, or hug you. Trev wasn't exactly afraid of him – few people scared him – but the fucker was unpredictable. He'd made a bit of an effort to be polite with him, for Cheryl's sake, but that was all.

"Yeah, but … they're a bit … noisy … y'know." She screwed her face up.

He laughed, mystified, and curled a bit of her hair around his finger. "It's not like you to go all Mary Poppins on me," he said. "Why does it matter? Who is it?"

She winced. "I can't really say."

He was surprised. "Why?" He frowned. "It's not someone married is it? … God, it's not Mitzeee again? I thought they were done for good last time."

She shook her head. "No," she said. "But it's someone I know … and it's a bit … strange."

He was puzzled. "Is it someone 'orrible?" He pulled a face.

She laughed, finally. "No," she said. "It's someone nice. Someone really nice." Her voice seemed to soften, but she still didn't sound all that happy about it.

He looked sceptical. "You're kidding me. How did Brendan manage to bag someone nice? Did he blindfold her and carry her off?"

She fixed him with her death look. "That's my brother you're talking about," she said, sternly. But somehow, she didn't seem to carry it off with much conviction tonight.

He softened. "Well I don't see what the problem is." He lay back down and put an arm around her. "But if it helps, I can come back with you tomorrow night. Moral support and all that."

Funny how used he was to her moods, how they flowed. He just felt, instinctively, that there was something she needed to face, and she was putting it off. She seemed to think about it, staring at the ceiling, thoughtfully. He'd never known her quite this stumped by anything before. She normally took everything head on, full force. Eventually, she sighed, and turned her head to look at him, and gave him a bit of a smile.

"Yeah," she said. "You're on. I could do with some backup. You might be in for a surprise though." Her voice seemed to flatten a little, at the end, as if something had taken the wind out of her sails. And he liked her in full sail. She could be magnificent.

"You were a surprise to me," he said, smiling back at her. "I like surprises." Then it faded. "Don't let him come anywhere near me, though."

He felt her pull him in close to her. "Don't worry," she said, nuzzling against his neck, "I'll protect you."

And he laughed, and was more than happy enough to let Cheryl continue to distract him. Or herself, if that was what she was doing.

But he couldn't help but be curious, when he followed her into the flat the next night, going home with her late after she finished work at the club. She seemed to stop, and peer round, as if she felt like an intruder in her own home. But as far as Trev could see, it seemed all pretty quiet on the Brendan Brady new domestic bliss front. They must have gone to bed already, and there were no shouts of sexual ecstasy coming down the stairs either, thank god. Cheryl seemed to relax. As he watched her kickoff her shoes in the kitchen, he couldn't help but notice that someone had been cooking what looked like eggs, and a pan had been left to soak. There were two plates, and two mugs stacked in the drainer. In the living room, things were a bit messier. There were cushions chucked on the floor for some reason. He wondered why the words "love nest" seemed to be cropping up in his head. Not words he would normally have associated with Cheryl's brother. He was way too intense for that. Too damn intense, he sometimes thought, for his own good - and everyone else's. He wasn't sure he had ever seen the guy happy.

They headed for bed. He was still none the wiser about why Cheryl was being so mysterious about the whole thing, but he could see she was disturbed by something, and tired, and he left it. And anyway, he didn't have to wait all that long to be enlightened.

In the night, he woke, stretching and feeling an overwhelming desire to stay put, next to Cheryl's warm body. But he realised, reluctantly, that he needed to take a leak. He got up, and shuffled down the corridor. But when he got to the bathroom, it was occupied. Damn. That must have been what had woken him, someone walking past their door to the bathroom. He stood back, and after a brief pause, the door opened and a figure appeared.

He was a bit surprised. It was that lad who worked the bar, the one Cheryl liked a lot. Ste Hay. The one who'd come out a few months before. She'd told him all about it. He was only wearing boxers, although there was a bandage taped across his side, and his hair was all rumpled. Cheryl hadn't said he was staying in the flat. He wondered if she'd started letting him stay there after a late shift at work. Or if he'd broken up with that boyfriend of his for some reason.

Ste squinted back at Trev, sleepy, ruffling his hair some more, and nodded briefly. Trev returned the gesture as they passed in the bathroom door. At the last minute, not really knowing why, his eyes followed Ste back down the corridor. Ste stopped, and put his hand on the handle of one of the bedroom doors. To his surprise, as Trev watched, Ste let himself into Brendan's bedroom. And as the door closed behind him, he distinctly heard Brendan's voice, low.

_C'mere Stephen …_

Trev carried on into the bathroom, slowly, and shut the door as quietly as he could. He stood taking a leak, thoughtful, frowning. Then looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. He shook his head, in amazement. Had he just dreamed that? No. He really hadn't.

Well, well, well. He had been right. He had been right. Or not him, not Trev, Trev wasn't much cop at these things, but Alphonse had been right. Alphonse had a real feel for these things, he met a lot of people and had to size them up quickly. And he had definitely had the measure of this one. Brendan Brady slept with men.

He had absolutely no idea really how he'd known. It had just been a knee-jerk thing, the fact that he just seemed very well-groomed. And handsome. And that tache. Seriously, with hindsight, how could anyone not have known with that tache? He shook his head, amazed. It had been a complete punt, assuming Brendan was gay. He should have known it was right when the guy came after him and threatened to smack his head in. He had seemed completely mental. But there was no doubting the evidence of what he'd just seen.

Wow. And he had been in the closet all this time.

Poor guy, he found himself thinking. And was surprised at himself. This was the very same guy who had punched his lights out for fooling Cheryl in to bed, and he'd probably deserved it. Brendan had always seemed like a walking contradiction to him, from what he'd seen. Part thug, part cultured intelligent man, the two sides bolted together in what seemed like some kind of eternal struggle. He had a vague memory of Ste coming into the bar, just after Brendan had punched him, and then leaving, fast, and Brendan running off after him, calling his name. The thug, with the quick fists, and the person who cared. He particularly remembered the tone in Brendan's voice as he'd said the lad's name - _Stephen_. He'd been too busy to really register it at the time. But it had been going on for a long while, this, he realised. And it had been killing him.

He sighed, and looked at his reflection. There was a lot to be said for being truthful. Lies always came out in the end, he thought, as he flicked off the light and headed back to the warmth of Cheryl's bed. As he put his arm around her and felt her stir, he realised that she had actually only just found out herself. And it was obvious that she was struggling with it. Not with her brother being gay, he didn't think she would ever be like that. But maybe with finding out that he had kept it from her, all this time. As he nuzzled her shoulder, and felt himself sliding back into sleep, he wondered how Brendan was handling it.

In the morning, he got to find out. Opening his eyes, he lay for a moment, remembering where he was. And what he knew. He looked across at Cheryl, who was still sleeping, and decided to get up and go and make her a cuppa, bring it back to bed.

But as he left the bedroom, he hesitated. He could hear noises from downstairs. Just ordinary noises really. A radio on. Two voices. Both male, one higher, doing some protesting, one lower, doing some teasing. A bit of laughter, backchat. Cheryl had always told him that Brendan could be great when he was feeling chilled, but he'd never really believed it. He braced himself and headed down the stairs.

Two pairs of eyes turned to look at him as he emerged into the kitchen.

Brendan was lounging with his back to the kitchen surface, a mug of tea in his hand. Ste was standing next to him at the worktop, buttering some toast. They were very close together, shoulder to shoulder almost. They had been looking at each other and smiling about something before they turned to look at him, Ste's head turning over his shoulder.

There was maybe a second's pause on Brendan's part, as his eyes flickered, slightly.

"All right, Trev?" he said, suddenly, almost lazily, his eyebrows raising as he looked over the top of his mug, and took a swig. Trev nodded, realising that Brendan had decided to brazen it out. He wasn't a big one for confessions and apologies - he'd hardly been expecting that.

Suddenly, Brendan whipped the loaded plate out from under Ste's hands and held it out. "Toast?" His expression was quizzical.

"Oi," Ste protested. "That was supposed to be mine!"

"No?" Brendan asked Trev, as he failed to get in with an answer fast enough. "OK." He put the plate back down in front of an open-mouthed Ste, took a slice off the top, and shoved most of it into his mouth. Ste shook his head, giving him a momentary what the fuck kind of look, but breaking into a half smile, and started on the next slice in the pile himself, smirking a bit.

"I'm just here to make Chez a cuppa," Trev answered him, wary, but refusing to be cowed, pointing vaguely at the kettle. "Can I …?"

"Stephen'll do that for you, won't you Stephen?" Brendan said, giving him a dry look.

Ste looked mildly sulky, his mouth assembling itself into a pout. "What did your last servant die of?" he asked, trying to frown, but reached out a hand and flicked the kettle on anyway.

Brendan leaned in to Ste, and spoke quietly at him, but Trev could still hear it. "Dunno," he said lowering his voice further, as Ste looked up into his face. "Love, probably."

From the rapt expression on Ste's face, it was more than obvious that he was loving it. But he scoffed, anyway. "Yeah, right," he said, taking a bite of his own toast.

This was the point, Trev thought to himself, that if he was with anyone else, he'd have told them to get a room. But he didn't feel he was quite there yet with these two. And he was saved the trouble by Brendan suddenly standing up straight and getting ready to leave. He shoved another piece of toast into his mouth, picked his leather jacket up off the back of the nearest chair, and pulled it on, shoving his arms into it as he held the toast between his teeth.

"Right, c'mon," he said to Ste, who quickly knocked back his own tea, and scooped his phone and keys off the table.

"Don't leave on my account," Trev said.

Brendan barely seemed to register it. "Work," he said. "Can't stay home forever."

He held the front door open for Ste, who exited under his arm, and Brendan got ready to follow him out. At the last moment, he stopped and turned.

"Tell Cheryl we'll cover work today, she's done enough," he said, and Trevor nodded. He seemed to hesitate, again, just for a moment. "And tell her … Stephen's going home after his shift tonight. So we'll talk then."

For once, there seemed to be a genuine communication coming from Brendan's eyes, usually so guarded.

"Sure," Trevor said. And they nodded at each other, and Brendan was gone, though Trev almost swore he saw Brendan pat Ste on the backside as he closed the door behind him and they headed off together.

That had been … interesting. The kettle came to a boil, and Trev turned to make himself and Cheryl cups of tea, and took them back upstairs.

When he arrived there, Cheryl was levering herself up in bed. She squinted at him, running a hand through her hair, pushing it back. She took the tea from him, and they settled back against the pillows.

She took a deep breath. "Sooo…." she said. "What's happening down there?"

He took a sip of his tea. "They're like a couple of fucking newly-weds," he said. "It makes you sick, really."

She laughed, and he was glad. That's what he'd been hoping for, to break the ice. He looked at her.

"Why didn't you tell me, Chez?" he asked her, gently.

"Sorry," she said. But then she shrugged, almost impatient. "But it wasn't really my secret to tell." She sounded unhappy.

He looked at her, thoughtfully. And she started to crack, under his gaze, as she always did.

"I've been such an idiot," she said, putting her tea down, and gesticulating with her hands. "I've got _everything_ wrong. Everything. I got you wrong. I got Ste wrong. And I got Brendan wrong, all this time. My own brother. I should be good at this, but I'm useless! I must have the worst most defective fucking gaydar in the whole universe!"

"Chez …" he tried to stop her. But she charged on, sitting up with her arms around her knees now.

"And all this time – _all _this time – if I had a problem, I took it to Brendan, and I thought he could do the same to me, I told him he could tell me anything, and I'd never tell, and I thought I knew him better than anyone. But I don't." She sounded bitter. She turned to him, and he could see she was on the verge of tears. "I don't know him at all. _Why_ didn't he tell me?"

The look on her face really touched him, as tears spilled over and started to roll down her face. She looked so betrayed, and he hated seeing her like that. He put his mug down.

"Come here, babes," he said, and pulled her back to him, his arm around her. He felt her head go down on his shoulder, and leant his cheek against her hair. He let her cry, for a while. And then brushed some of the wetness off her face with a thumb, gently.

"Don't be too hard on yourself," he said to her, as he felt her breathing coming in sobs. "Or him."

"Why not?" she said, her voice thick through the tears. "He's lied to me, his whole life." Her voice broke off.

"Because …" he said, searching for the right words, and almost giving up, but then suddenly finding them, "because we're not all like you. We're not all honest, and open, and truthful. We don't all wear our heart on our sleeve, like you do, for everyone to see. Maybe the world would be a better place if we did." She seemed to sniff, and listen, quietly. He kissed her hair. "You have to understand , Chez, for some of us, sometimes … it's just easier to be someone else."

"But … why?" she asked.

He sighed. "All sorts of reasons. Because we don't like ourselves very much sometimes. Because we wish we were better, different. Because we're a bit afraid of people knowing who we really are. Because we're scared of knowing who we are ourselves." He looked down at her, again, and reached for her hand, and squeezed it. "Haven't you ever wanted to be someone else?" he asked her.

"Dunno," she said, sniffing. There was a pause. "Angelina Jolie?"

He smiled. "Well then," he said.

She seemed to nod, but she still looked unbelievably sad, and it occurred to him for the first time, from the pain it gave him, that this, him and Cheryl, was way more than just fun. That it was serious, after all. He realised that he was almost certainly in love with her. It was equal parts scary, and amazing, to let himself feel it.

"I don't know if I can forgive him," she said.

"You will," he said.

"But I don't know what to say to him," she said.

"You don't have to say anything. Let Mr Strong, Silent and Mental do the talking, for once," he said. "He said he'll be back tonight."

"I don't think it'll ever be the same," she said, raising her head and looking up at him.

He looked down at her. "Maybe it'll be better," he said. "Now there's no secrets."

"Maybe," she said. And nodded. And put her head back on his shoulder. "I guess I'll find out tonight."

He felt an intense desire to do something for her, to help her through it. He picked up his tea again, and sipped, thoughtfully. His brain ticked, and an idea formed. He would make this Cheryl day, he thought. Reschedule some appointments, take her out, spoil her, take her shopping, take her mind off it.

He smiled to himself. Maybe he'd go as Alphonse, he thought, suddenly, liking the idea. Dig out the natty suits and the dicky bow and the hat. He'd make her laugh, let her practice the whole Gay Best Friend thing.

He looked down at her. Thought how young she looked, completely without make-up, without pretence. And he had another moment of realisation.

He wouldn't go as Alphonse. He'd go as Trevor. They would be Cheryl and Trevor.

There had been enough play-acting. It was fun, but it wasn't really fair. And it seemed like everyone lost out in the end.

He thought about what he'd seen. Brendan and Ste, in that kitchen. And Brendan's voice, last night. And Cheryl, in here, with him, and how he felt about her.

And for the first time in a long time, he started to feel the benefit of just being himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Crossing Thresholds**

**Part 4: Ste (1)  
**

Being with Brendan Brady, Ste was realising, was not an ordinary life. But then he had probably got off the slow bus to ordinary the day he'd first leant up and kissed him, without even really understanding what he was doing, but only knowing he wanted it, and he thought Brendan had wanted it too. Or maybe the day that he'd met him, and right from the start, he'd been unable to stay away from him, being cheeky to him, standing up for himself in a way that had driven Brendan to knock him half way across the club. And even then, even after that, he'd been drawn to him, started to notice him a lot, worry about him even. Care about him, in a strange way. He'd always known Brendan had a dark side, something that seemed to suck in the light like a black hole, when he was in a black dog mood anyway, but he had, what did they call it? – charisma. Yeah. He had something, anyway. Something that kept dragging him back into Brendan's orbit, something that felt a bit like gravity. Something that made you want him to look at you, in a particular way. Speak to you, like you mattered. And then touch you, like it meant something. And then put his mouth against yours, and kiss you, even if it was terrifying. And then lie you down, and kiss you all over, including down there, and then make love to you until you were yelling. And then keep doing it, as often as possible. And hold you after.

It was amazing to him, really, how that had all clicked into place like it was always meant to happen between them. It had never really bothered Ste that much that it was with a man. He'd been very confused, after that first kiss, but it was more to do with the fact that he'd kissed his boss, this guy who was way out of his league, if he was really honest. It had brought back some memories of someone he'd known a few years back, someone he'd been close to, someone he'd wanted to kiss a few times, and touch, and he'd wondered if it was just because they were banged up together without women and he'd stopped himself before anything happened. But Brendan wasn't like anyone else he'd ever known, not even Callum, and when they started having sex, he had only known that he wanted to do that with him, and didn't question it that much. He still enjoyed sex with girls, so he just thought he couldn't be gay. Macca had tried to show him there was a bit more to it than that. That it might be something that was already there, that it could be more than just Brendan. It was only when he'd got together with someone else, when he was trying to leave Brendan behind, and failing, spectacularly, that he'd understood that he was at the gay end of bisexual. And that it wasn't wrong. And it wasn't something he needed to hide away any more.

But he'd been naïve, he realised now, in asking for a relationship with Brendan straight away. What had he expected, when he dragged Brendan practically kicking and screaming to that gay bar back before Christmas? He had just wanted them to be ordinary together. Out. Gay, he supposed, it didn't much matter as long as they were together. He just wanted to be with Brendan, and for people to know about it, and it would all be fine. Maybe Brendan just needed persuading that it was all OK, like he had. But seriously, looking back now, what had he been thinking? Did he think Brendan was going to take his hand and go skipping down the street with him? OK, maybe not, but just an arm round his shoulders would have been nice.

But he'd had no idea how deep the darkness ran through Brendan, right into his core. It was only when Ste had tried again, suggested that they start a new life somewhere else, Brighton maybe, that he'd started to see it. When Brendan had lost it, and smacked him in the face, twice, and made him bleed, and then rambled, incoherent, eyes barely seeing him. That was maybe the point when Ste had finally thought that Brendan would never come out of that closet, and he couldn't stay there with him either, because it would always end like this, in being bitter and angry and violent, at any moment. And he would be on the end of it, always. And then he found out about the murder, and it was terrible, he was petrified, and it all fell apart anyway.

It had only started to change when Brendan had come back, after going missing that time. Ste had been trying to make this new relationship work, and wondering why it seemed such bloody hard work when the guy was so fundamentally OK and everyone kept telling him how nice he was, and how good they were together. And so he kept going, and it was fun, sometimes. A relief, really, that nothing bad was going to happen any second, nothing terrible that would scare the hell out of you. It didn't have the horrific lows that he'd had with Brendan. But then, it didn't have the highs either. He only remembered what that felt like when Brendan came back. For a while, he kept his distance, and Ste told himself he was happy about it, though he couldn't help but notice him. He mainly seemed to hang with Pete, and Warren, and Cheryl, though Ste no longer worked with them and didn't feel part of that group any more. Like he was shut out of his old life. And then one day Brendan walked up to him when he was on his own in the village, and looked awkward, and asked if they could talk.

He put it off, for days, saying stupid things like he didn't want to know, when he did. Who doesn't want to know why someone kills someone? Who doesn't want to know what made someone who they are, when you thought you loved them, once, more than anything else in the world, and then realised you didn't know them at all. Who doesn't know what goes on inside the head of the person they think might still love them back, even though it's supposed to be over?

And Brendan had pursued him. _Please_, he said. And looked at him, with those grey blue eyes.

So he had let it happen, wary. And Brendan had sat there, brooding, thoughtful, looking down at his hands as if he wished there was a strong drink in them, but he couldn't trust himself with one, and he'd started to say a few things, while Ste sat, feeling strangely guilty, like just being there was a sin, when it wasn't. Brendan had talked about his world, the one he grew up in, the expectations on him. Feeling like you were on a track, all mapped out, that you couldn't get out of. Trapped. Wanting something different, not being allowed to have it. Hemmed in by life. Work, wife, kids. And getting these glimpses of something else, a way out, something he wanted for himself, but hating it more every time, because every time, he was more and more aware of how badly he wanted it, but couldn't have it. Ending up so he hated more than he loved. About everything, people, the world, himself.

"You killed someone," Ste had said to him.

And Brendan had nodded. "I had to," he said. "I did that for you."

"I don't wanna hear that again," Ste had said, emotions resurfacing.

"It's true," Brendan said.

"It's not, I … never asked you to," he had stood up, starting to feel like he was losing it again, afraid of what he might do, "I never asked you to do that …"

And Brendan had stood up too, and moved towards him. "I had to," he said, "he was gonna …"

"No, he wouldn't."

"He would. He would. He did, and he has. I told you."

"I don't … I never asked for any of this … I never asked you to protect me, I was fine before …"

Brendan moved towards him, closer, and he put his hands up to fend him off.

"No …"

But Brendan grabbed hold of his wrists, and held them, as he tried to shake himself free.

"I have to look after ya Stephen …"

"Why? It was you that hurt me, nobody else!" He kept struggling.

Brendan held him, though it didn't seem to hurt, the pain seemed to be mainly in his chest.

"Look at me," Brendan said, shaking his wrists just strongly enough to make him look into his face, and stop struggling for a moment. "Look at me … I will never hurt you again. And I will never let anyone hurt you again. Ever. Do you understand?"

Somewhere inside him, Ste heard it, the words. But it was like hearing it through a fog. He shook himself free, panting.

"What?" He heard his voice, incredulous.

Brendan just carried on looking at him. "No one will touch a hair on your head again. I promise." His voice seemed just a little shaky.

For a second, there was stillness, as Brendan lifted his hand, and stroked Ste's hair behind his ear. Maybe his hand was shaking a bit, as well.

And then Ste had woken up. Shaken himself. He had moved on. He had. "You don't get to decide that," he said to Brendan, hearing the passion in his voice, how close he was to crying, all over again, as if there hadn't been enough crying already.

And he had backed away, fast, and walked out.

He went home. Tried to forget. Hugged his kids. And even as he was hugging them, putting his mouth against Lucas's hair, he remembered. Remembered how he and Brendan had talked about their kids in the beginning. How you'd do anything for them. Anything. How sometimes, there were no limits. How life outside those limits was scary, like having kids, but you still went there, because that's what life was all about, going to the scary places.

He went back the next day. They went back to bed, and he felt their bodies reconnect, and it was like finding a way home. Sometimes, there are no limits.

But he insisted, afterwards, that it was on his terms. He would only leave Noah if Brendan could offer him a relationship. But for Brendan, a handful of people knowing was one thing. Being fully out, with a man on his arm, was completely another. They both realised they had lost the power to stop seeing each other. But they entered a period of negotiation. Ste was adamant. Brendan was trying, but reluctant. It was difficult, Cheryl would feel betrayed. No deal. His kids, his family, he didn't want them to know. No deal. He didn't know how to tell them. Find a way. In the end, they were both exhausted. Ste broke it off, and was miserable. Brendan drank, and was miserable. It couldn't go on.

And then Amy stepped in, made him think about what he really wanted, and what was fair on everyone else. He realised it wasn't all about him. He left Noah, feeling like he was getting his life back, relieved that he was no longer cheating on anyone. And then suddenly Brendan was there, spiky, unapologetic, in a set up by Amy. And then he was telling him that he loved him. And that was it, really. It should have been simple. But nothing with Brendan was ever simple.

The abduction by Danny's men had petrified him. He had thought he was going to die. He thought about his kids, and Amy, and everything that had happened, and wished it hadn't all been so short. When Brendan came for him, and he had to look into his eyes and trust him, still knowing that they might both die, he realised that if life was this fragile, and might be that short, he wanted to spend it with him, no matter what. There really wasn't time for any more fannying about.

When Brendan took him home, and took care of him, he had sat in the bed, nursing his side. When he was calm enough, they talked.

"I'm scared," Ste said to him.

Brendan looked around the room, thoughtful. "We're all scared Stephen. World's a scary place." He sounded like he was speaking from weary experience.

"Will there be any more danger?"

Brendan looked at him.

"I don't care for me … but the kids and Amy, will there be any more danger?"

Brendan shook his head. "I would never let that happen."

"How …?"

"It's sorted," Brendan said.

He never knew, in the end, if this was because Brendan and Warren had left it in the hands of the police, or if he had contacts in Ireland who would put pressure on Danny's guys. He just looked at Brendan.

"I'm never gonna be Snow White, Stephen," Brendan said to him.

Ste nodded. "I know." He had done plenty of bad things himself, he knew it. But he hoped it didn't make him a bad person. He wanted to believe he could still make good, in some way, even if it was just as a Dad, and a friend, and a lover. He looked up.

"Do you still wanna be with me?" Ste asked him, simply, still shivering a bit from shock.

Brendan looked at him for what seemed a long time. "Yeah," he said. And then hutched up the bed to sit beside him, put his arms round him, and held him for a bit, while to his complete embarrassment, Ste cried. And all the while he could hear Brendan's voice, murmuring into his hair,

_It's OK … you're OK … it's the shock …_

He slept in the end with Brendan's arm round him. And in the morning, everything was different. Brendan's body was there, strong, reassuring. Desireable. They had sex, Brendan being careful with him, until Ste begged him not to be. They were together. No one is taking this away from me now, Ste thought, looking up at the ceiling, feeling the prickle of Brendan's hair against his face, his body filled. No one. It was like a second chance at life.

The first few days, he never left the flat, though Brendan went to Amy's to pick him up some stuff, and to make sure she was OK, and knew where he was, what had happened, or some of it. They spent a lot of it in bed, in the shower, on the sofas, having sex, or making love, he supposed, because that was what it felt like, like it ran really deep, like it was something they both needed. And in between, they talked, little bits that gave him a glimpse of what life might be like when they stepped outside that door together.

"You'll come back to work," Brendan said, as if it was a done deal.

"OK," Ste said, looking up at him, because he had loved that job, for all it was hard work. He'd felt part of something.

"That's good," Brendan said, sounding amused, "I'll make you bar manager," and kissed his way slowly down Ste's body, and given him what felt like a hefty advance on his wages.

And a few days later, they walked out the door side by side for the first time.

It was a strange thing, getting used to being together. He had wanted it for so long, and now it was here, it gave him a weird buzz, like everything was shifting a bit, changing shape around him.

He wasn't always sure how, but people seemed to know. Whether Cheryl had told them, now she knew, or Pete, who had always seemed to know, he had no idea, but they seemed to know anyway. Maybe they just guessed, because Brendan made no attempt to hide it, though he didn't exactly declare it either. At work, he would just hear Brendan yelling his name, _Stephen, I need you_, and if he was down in the basement, he would come up the stairs and stand there.

"What do you want Brendan? I'm dealing with a delivery here."

"Well let Rhys do it," Brendan would say, standing in the office doorway, looking at him with clear intention.

And Ste would feel a prickle of desire, rising, and let himself be taken off. The first time, he'd known that Rhys was gawping. He'd specially known because three minutes later, when Brendan had him pinned up against the wall, kissing the very breath out of him, he'd suddenly broken off and whipped open the door to find Rhys and Jacqui, who had been reinstated after the trial on Brendan's insistence, standing there blushing as if they'd been listening in.

"Can I help you, ladies?" Brendan had asked them.

"No … we're just …" Jacqui had started.

"We're just …" Rhys had tailed off.

Brendan had looked at them. "Fascinating, really. Maybe you could just … go and do your jobs. Or I might just … find your P45s. Chop chop."

They had shuffled off, looking sheepish, and Brendan had slammed the door shut again. Locked it. Then picked Ste up, carried him over to the sofa, and given him the blow job of his life. When he'd finally reemerged, he knew he had been grinning all over his face. His mouth was still full of the taste of returning the favour for Brendan. Life was good.

They would go to the pub together at lunchtime, and Brendan would buy him chips, or a burger, and he would sit at the bar alongside Brendan as he chatted with Carl Costello about business, or gaming nights, or sport, and there was nothing overt, but Brendan would grin at him, maybe touch his back occasionally, touch his arm when they had to leave. Once, when they were standing in a quiet corner together, Brendan had just leant over and nuzzled his ear for about a second with his mouth. Ste had felt his temperature go up at the gesture, the definite tickle of the moustache where he was sensitive. When Brendan had straightened up, he seemed to have spotted someone staring.

"Got a problem, mate?" Brendan had asked him.

And the guy had blenched, and shaken his head, and scurried off. And Brendan had looked back at Ste and bent and given him a quick kiss on the mouth, and they had both smiled.

OK, Brendan didn't hold his hand in the street. Occasionally, he got an arm slung loosely around his shoulder, and then released. But if Ste was honest, having been through what they had, it was enough just to be walking alongside him, for Brendan to speak to him, and hear what he had to say back. And to look at him, and joke, and smile. That was absolutely enough. He felt like a very lucky guy.

So no, being with Brendan Brady was not ordinary. You never knew quite what you were gonna get, a kiss, or to have the mickey taken out of you. A stroke, or a roll of the eyes. Brendan's moods could still take him up and down, and Ste learned to roll with it. He had always disappeared sometimes, and Cheryl would say he was away "on business," but she never seemed to know exactly where, or exactly what, and that didn't change. It's just sometimes now he got a chance to go with him, to Manchester, or Liverpool. He rarely got much notice. It was an unpredictable life, but he knew what he'd signed up for. The only thing that was predictable about Brendan was that he was unpredictable.

So Ste was used to receiving messages that asked him to drop everything and change his plans. And sometimes he protested and dug his heels in, and sometimes he didn't. But he was both surprised, and not surprised, when he got a text message from Brendan at one o'clock one Thursday afternoon which just said _Pack bag for wkd. Coming 4 u 2nite 8pm._

He approached Amy a bit nervously, but she just rolled her eyes and said she knew all about it, Brendan had checked with her first, and Mike was coming for the kids anyway so her and Lee could have some time together of their own.

So that evening, he was waiting by the door when the taxi drew up outside the flat, and Brendan threw open one of the doors and told him to move his arse, while looking at it, appreciatively.

It was impossible not to be excited, sitting in the back seat, looking out at a darkening world, having no idea where they were going, but feeling his thigh rub against Brendan's, and knowing Brendan was turning to look at him from time to time, and smiling, self-satisfied.

It didn't take long before he found out. The taxi dropped them at the Liverpool ferry port. Brendan paid the driver, and started to chivvy him down to the landing stage. Dublin. They were going to Dublin.


	5. Chapter 5

**Crossing Thresholds**

_Writer's note: This part about Ste got a bit out of hand, so I've split it in three. This is the second bit. Another bit will be along in a week or so. It has been tough to keep writing this cos I don't much like what I've seen on screen this week, but it was all written in my head, so I thought I'd roll with it. Just a quick note: the character of Alan here is borrowed (by kind permission!) from Radiohippie's amazing fic Tough. I've never borrowed before, but it just fit so brilliantly._

**Part 5: Ste (2)  
**

Ste's heart thumped as they got onto the boat. He'd never been anywhere, ever really. And now Brendan was taking him home. He felt like he was exploding, and Brendan just watched him, with amusement. He knew his eyes were probably wide. He felt like a kid that couldn't stop smiling.

There was a cabin, booked for Brady and Hay. It was pretty small. Brendan said there was no way they were attempting to have sex in a bunk that size, not when there was a big bed waiting for them in Dublin, but they lay tangled up together anyway, Ste with his head on Brendan's chest, Brendan with his chin on Ste's head, teasing him from time to time, and feeling the boat rise and fall. The crossing was pretty smooth in the end, though Brendan muttered into his hair as they lay there, that it could get pretty rough out there sometimes, it could leave you with your stomach in your mouth. But even though it was calm, it was still impossible to sleep, almost. Ste had woken in the early hours, untangled himself, and insisted on getting dressed and going up on deck as Brendan lay and watched him and gave him that dry, growly, amused laugh that he was getting so used to hearing.

In the end, they stood together on the deck watching the dawn arrive, grey, freezing in their jackets, but Ste just couldn't help hanging over the rails and watching the water go by, feeling the breeze lifting his hair, and Brendan leaning beside him, half protective, half just enjoying his excitement. He bought them both cups of tea and bacon cobs from the breakfast bar, and they stood and ate them together as the sight of the Dublin ferry port came closer. It was all concrete and chimneys. It shouldn't have felt romantic. To Ste, it was about the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

Brendan had booked a hire car to drive them into the city. Ste had hardly ever had Brendan drive him anywhere, and it was pretty hot letting someone else take the wheel. He'd never learned to drive himself, he couldn't afford the lessons, and wondered suddenly if Brendan would teach him. He stared out of the window and found himself being taken to a modern hotel, just a tower block really, but once they got up to their suite, it had an amazing view of the city, and a balcony.

"Oh my god!" Ste said, "look at this!" as he stood, taking in the new world spread out underneath him. He had never seen anything quite like it. It felt like the top of the world.

"Seen it," Brendan said, nonchalantly, but still clearly enjoying Ste's buzz. "Now come inside, Stephen."

"Why?" Ste asked, coming back in as Brendan pulled the curtains across.

"Because I need to get some kip," Brendan said. He started to pull off his clothes, but turned to look at Ste. "You kept me awake most of the bleeding night and I'm knackered."

So they started the weekend asleep, but it was still good, in the cool hotel bed, huge, with clean white sheets made of some thick cotton stuff Ste had only experienced before in the hotel with Brendan that night early on, and with Brendan's arm around him and his cheek pressed against the hair on Brendan's chest.

And when they woke up, it was different again. Ste could hear the sounds of a strange city, outside. And he could feel Brendan, reaching for him with very definite intention now, in the strange room, the strange bed that was so much more comfortable than his own at home.

It was amazing to him that Brendan loved him the way he did, his body and all. It was amazing to be grabbed, almost roughly, and savoured and tasted, as if Brendan felt a need to stretch out after the cramped cabin last night, and enjoy him properly, Ste ending up face down on the bed being taken from behind, propped on his elbows, sweating, and feeling a pounding in his head that seemed to match the pounding that was assaulting his body, and the pounding distant roar of the traffic below the windows.

Afterwards, hot, and relaxed, they took a shower together, and took their time, Ste laughing and flicking water at Brendan to make him grab his wrists, and in high hopes of a kiss, which he got, of course. And when they were showered and dressed, finally, Ste found himself hitting the streets of Dublin. He stared around him, open mouthed, knowing Brendan was probably laughing at him, thinking he was a bit of a hick. But then he'd never really been anywhere. He was a hick.

It was strange to be somewhere Brendan had been, when he was just a kid. The first bit of Brendan's past he had really seen, first hand. He'd lived on an estate in the poor North of the city til he was about eight, when his Mum had finally got sick of managing on her own, and had upped sticks and taken him to Belfast, to follow his Dad to the place where he had his new family. He'd revealed some of this to Ste, in bits and pieces, over the previous few weeks. But he'd been back loads of times since, on business. This was his city, in some ways, far more than Belfast was. He took Ste up and down O'Connell Street, walking with his hands in his pockets, pointing out a few things as they went. Something to do with an Easter Rising, nearly a hundred years ago but sounding like it was yesterday, and the army coming up the river, and people dying, and all the buildings that looked old having been destroyed and rebuilt. Ste listened, understanding some of it. He'd never really paid much attention to history, but it seemed a bit more important here, because it was Brendan's history, what made him who he was.

They walked on through the city, crossing a bridge over the river, and on down to where most of the shops were. Brendan took him for lunch in some posh café with plants like palms, and he sat on his chair, feeling a bit awkward, while Brendan ordered himself coffee, a coke for Ste, and pizza to share. He knew Brendan was watching him amused, while he munched his way through it. He was getting used to the fact that Brendan found him amusing.

"What?" he asked him, eventually, half frowning.

"Nothing," Brendan said, shrugging. But then lowered his voice. "You seem hungry is all."

"Yeah," said Ste, looking at him from under his eyelashes, and taking another bite, "well I can't imagine why."

And he was rewarded by Brendan laughing, his low, dry, amused laugh. He liked hearing it. It was one of his favourite sounds, after Brendan's voice when he was seducing him, which was absolutely his favourite. Or the noise he made when he came, a kind of long slow Unffff, which was pretty good too.

They rambled about the city for a bit, looking at the river, which blew Ste's mind, the span of it, the smell that was like the sea, until Brendan rummaged in his pocket and brought out some kind of scribbled note.

"What is it?" Ste asked him.

"Someone I thought I might look up," Brendan said, frowning. "C'mon."

Ste headed off after him, feeling surprised. He hadn't expected it. He'd assumed this would be one of their secret weekends, where it was really just him and Brendan, mucking about during the day, and releasing all their tension in a big shared bed at night, knowing they were away from their commitments, the things that still pulled them apart sometimes. But this was a bit different.

Brendan led the way back across the river, Ste almost running to keep up, his feet starting to feel sore from having crossed and recrossed the city. Brendan checked the slip of paper again, and took a side street off O'Connell, drawing to a halt outside a pub. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, but then looked decided.

"This is it," he said, and ushered Ste in in front of him.

Inside, he paused, Ste beside him, and looked around, while Ste checked the place out. It was a fairly ordinary pub really, but not an old geezer's pub. Bit of a cool vibe, a lot of younger people. Students, probably, a lot of them. And mixed. He couldn't help but notice that in at least a few places, men were sitting with men, and not in a playing dominoes sense. But not in a feather boas sense either. It just seemed normal. Ordinary. Relaxed.

Ste sensed an almost imperceptible change in Brendan's body language, as he saw someone behind the bar. He followed Brendan's gaze.

It was a bloke about the same age as Brendan, from the looks of him. Still looked pretty good. Slim. Dark hair. His sleeves were rolled up, and he was clearly a strong guy. Muscled. Carried a few tattooes, a bit like the cross Brendan had on his upper arm, the one that he ran his fingers over, often, in bed. The one that made him slightly weak with desire. Brendan headed across, and the guy looked up, and in a moment of slow recognition, he seemed to freeze, astonished, his mouth slightly open. He had big brown eyes, Ste noticed.

Brendan seemed just a little awkward. "How are ya, Alan?"

It took a moment or so for the guy who was obviously Alan to respond. Then he seemed to collect himself. He almost shook his head.

"God … is it … Brendan Brady?"

And then he reached out a hand, slowly. Brendan reached out in turn, and shook it, firm, as they looked at each other.

"Jesus … it must be … years. Years," Alan said. "Seven? Eight?"

"Yeah," Brendan said, "something like that."

Alan seemed speechless again.

"Jesus," was all he said.

Then, for the first time, he seemed to register Ste, standing back a little way. His face was curious. He turned back to Brendan and gave him a look which carried some meaning.

"So … how's Eileen and the boys?" His eyebrows were very slightly raised.

"Yeah," Brendan said. "Good … good. Declan gave us a scare there for a while, but he's OK. Had a little op on his inner ear."

Alan was nodding. "Good … that's good … they must have been just babies when I left town."

"Yeah," Brendan said. "Growing up fast now. Don't see them as often as I'd like, though." He looked at Alan, more direct. "You heard I went to England? Cheryl's there … so …"

"Yeah," Alan said, also direct. "I heard about that."

There was a loaded pause, during which Brendan looked awkward again. Alan was the one who seemed to decide to break it.

"So," he asked, sounding curious, and a little more friendly, leaning on the bar, "how did you find me, Brendan?"

"Pete," Brendan told him. "Suggested I look ya up."

Alan looked briefly amazed. "Pete? So you two …"

"We came to an understanding, yeah," Brendan said.

"No kidding," Alan said. "That's … that's good."

Ste couldn't help but wonder how long these two were both going to keep on telling each other that things were good.

"How's things here?" Brendan asked him, breaking the silence.

"Fucking difficult," said Alan, and they both seemed to laugh for a moment, relax. "Seemed like a great idea when the economy was booming. Now no one's got any fucking cash. Just my luck, eh?"

"Why d'ye stay then?" Brendan asked him. "Why not ship out, go back to Belfast?"

Alan shook his head. "Got a life here mate. Run this place with my partner." There was a definite emphasis on the word, that meant something. That meant something more than a business partner.

Brendan nodded, seeming unsurprised by this, but thoughtful. "Right," he said. "And he's …" he ran out of words.

Alan looked at him again, direct, but easy. "He's at the wholesaler's. Paul."

"Right," Brendan said.

"He's a good bloke," Alan said. Then seemed almost to give Brendan a challenge with his eyes. "You should meet him some time."

"Yeah," Brendan said, almost smiling, but looking down. "Maybe I will."

Alan seemed a bit surprised at this, and looked from Brendan to Ste and back again.

"So … what brings you here?"

Brendan shifted his feet, again. Cleared his throat a bit. "Stephen's never been," he said. He gestured with a hand, his finger pointing, towards Ste for the first time since they walked in. "This is … Stephen, by the way."

Alan looked at Ste. Seemed almost to be making some deductions, behind his eyes. A number of expressions crossed his face, carefully controlled. But then held out his hand, direct, friendly.

"Good to meet ye Stephen," he said. And Ste let his hand be shaken. Alan seemed to give it an extra squeeze, tight, as if he really meant it.

He glanced back at Brendan, who seemed to meet his eyes, but almost wincing, uncertain, and then casting glances around the bar.

It was clear Alan decided to take control of the situation.

"Had your first real Guinness yet, Stephen?" he asked him, grinning for the first time.

"No … I don't really …" he looked at Brendan, who was also now grinning at him, back to chewing his gum, insolent, as usual. He wasn't that keen on stout really. Old bloke's beer.

"Gotta have a Guinness in Dublin, mate," Alan said to him, and got down a couple of pint glasses. "It's the rules."

Brendan put a hand in his pocket for money, but Alan stopped him.

"On me, mate," he said.

"No," Brendan started, but he was stopped again.

"This calls for a celebration," Alan said, very definitely. "Brendan Brady back in town." He looked at Ste, and then back at Brendan. "I'd say this very definitely calls for a celebration."

So Ste found himself standing there, sipping the cool black stuff with the creamy head, and feeling mellow, as Brendan and Alan chatted. They talked about people they'd known. Cheryl. Mums and Dads. Mates. Sounded like there had been a certain amount of trouble. They laughed about it now. He didn't have anything to add to it, really, it was clear they were buzzing a bit off seeing each other again, but every so often, Alan would ask him a question, and Brendan would look at him, and smile, and he felt encouraged. He told Alan about Chez Chez, about them all working there together. How he was the bar manager now.

"That where you two met?" Alan asked them, completely casual.

Ste glanced at Brendan, unsure how much to say. Brendan was looking down at his pint, thoughtful, as if he was wondering the same thing. He paused. But then looked up. Spoke.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah."

That was all. But it felt like an acknowledgement. Ste felt the usual buzz, in his stomach, that slight feeling of unreality, that he could do it.

They left, not long after. The pub was getting busy, and people needed serving. Alan shook hands with Ste first, then Brendan.

"Good to see ye Brendan," he said. "Seriously. Don't be a stranger."

Brendan nodded. And then their hands parted, and Ste followed him back out into the street. They headed back to the hotel. He was unsure what he could ask about Alan, though he was dying to. He still wasn't certain sometimes where the boundaries were, what Brendan wanted to share with him about his past. There seemed to be a lot that he was untangling, and he was doing it his own way. Maybe this, going to see this Alan bloke, was part of it.

In their room, they kicked off their shoes and lay on the bed, watching sport on the big TV, idly. And it was strange, in the end, lying there with Brendan's arm around his shoulders, he never actually had to ask. Brendan just started talking. Him and Alan had run together for a bit, when he was a teenager. He'd looked up to him, he said. He laughed, low. It had got pretty wild there for a bit, he said. Alan had ended up doing some time. When he came out, he seemed different. Tougher, in one way, more determined. And more raw, more vulnerable, in another. He was never going back to the old life, he'd said. And Brendan had already started seeing Eileen. In the next few years, he started a family. Alan had moved away.

Ste looked up at Brendan. Decided to be brave.

"Was he your boyfriend?" he asked him, trying not to give away the little stab of jealousy that he still felt when he thought about Brendan with anyone else.

Brendan laughed, that low, dry laugh in his chest and throat. Then it died. "No," he said. "No, not exactly. He was never that."

But it was clear that there had been a connection. Ste decided to let it go. Brendan was with him, now. Lying on a bed in a hotel room, his arm around him. He didn't need much more reassurance than that.

That night, Brendan took him out to a casino. They dressed up a bit – well, Brendan did, looking devilish and sharp in a suit, as always. Ste felt a bit ashamed really – he still only had the shirts and casual jacket that he'd always worn, because he'd dug his heels in, and wouldn't allow Brendan to buy him a suit, but he made a bit of an effort anyway. Brendan looked him up and down and ran a hand briefly over his hair. He sighed a bit.

"For god's sake," he said, "at least tell me you'll get a couple of new shirts tomorrow." Then he looked down at Ste's feet. "And some decent shoes," he said, drily.

Ste just rolled his eyes. "Maybe," he said. And now Brendan rolled his, in return, and pulled open the door, holding it open for Ste to pass through.

Brendan bought him a pile of betting chips, and he enjoyed himself, but he won nothing, and continued to lose steadily through the night. Brendan was doing a little better, winning and losing at different times. On the last turn of the roulette wheel, Ste finally got lucky with a win. He was ecstatic, partly because he was mildly drunk after several bottles of beer. He immediately wanted to put all his chips back on again, sure his luck had turned. Brendan stopped him.

"Woah," he said, raking the chips in, "hold on there, high roller." He gathered them up and placed them in Ste's hands. He smiled indulgently. "First rule of gambling," he said, "quit while you're ahead." And he steered him off to cash them in.

They walked back from the casino through the Dublin streets to the hotel. In the dark, walking close together, something strange happened. Ste felt Brendan's hand, which had brushed his several times, reach for his own, and hold it. He wasn't sure if he was imagining it at first, it was so alien, and yet so completely natural. His heart thumped. He hardly dared to look at Brendan, and he didn't say anything to acknowledge it, but he just let his hand be held. Maybe even squeezed back a bit. Felt the inevitable heat starting to rise on the back of his neck at the closeness of it, the intimacy.

In the hotel lift, they separated and stood opposite each other. Brendan was sort of smiling at him. There was no one else getting in or out at this time of night. Ste decided maybe it was time to be bold. He walked over and stood close, and then leaned against him and put his head down against Brendan's shoulder, felt Brendan's mouth in his hair. And then held his face up, and got a kiss, long, and slow.

By the time they reached their room, they were practically stripping the clothes off each other, and he almost pulled Brendan into bed. He felt almost insatiable this weekend, but then they spent a lot of nights apart when Ste was on childcare duty, because Brendan didn't much fancy staying over at the flat often. Or at all, really. And Brendan didn't seem to have any objection, making love to him again, different to last time though, slowly, deliciously, like they had all the time in the world together. Where before he'd been rough, now he was mind-blowingly gentle, and Ste just wrapped his legs around him and let himself get swept away, and it was like … it reminded him of the sea crossing, Brendan was like the sea, he was never the same, sometimes he was rough, and stormy, and trouble would blow up, and sometimes he was easy and loving, he rose and fell, ebbed and flowed, but he was always there, like some force that was driving Ste's life along now in a particular direction, and he just didn't ever want it to end.

Afterwards, they lay together, Ste in the crook of Brendan's arm, where he liked to be. Ste was torn between wanting to stay awake, because it was so good, just being here, it was the best thing ever, and drifting towards sleep, because they'd barely slept the night before. Brendan looked down at him, and could obviously tell he was falling asleep. He gave a small grunt, satisfied, and reached out a hand to turn off the lamp.

Ste looked up into his face before the light disappeared. "I love you," he said.

Brendan brought the hand back, a bit surprised, and ran a finger down the side of his face.

"Yeah," he said, "love ya too." And he kissed him.

And then he flicked off the light and they lay there in the darkness. And Ste knew he was going to fall asleep, and it was all perfect, all of it, the calm crossing, and the cabin, and the bacon buttie at dawn, and the hotel, the shower, and Dublin, and being introduced to Alan, and even just bloody lying on the bed together watching telly, and the casino, and winning, and quitting while you were ahead, and walking back with your hand being held, and the lift, and the sex, and the darkness, lying here, now, with his head on Brendan's shoulder. It was all perfect. It was the perfect day. It was the perfect fucking day with Brendan Brady.


	6. Chapter 6

**Crossing Thresholds**

**Part 6: Ste (3)**

It was doubly disappointing, then, to wake up the next morning and to realise that he was on his own.

The other side of the bed was empty. Ste lay and listened out for the sound of Brendan in the shower, but there was nothing. He levered himself up on his elbows and squinted at the bedside clock for the time, and that was when he saw it. A note, on hotel notepaper, quickly scribbled, and propped up.

_Gone to see the kids. BB. _

Apparently as an afterthought, he had scribbled an_ X _at the bottom. The paper was weighed down by a generous pile of notes and coins.

Ste flopped back onto the bed.

Of course. Sure. Of course Brendan would want to see his kids while they were over here. That was completely, totally natural. And yet he still felt a wave of disappointment wash over him that settled in the pit of his stomach. He must be a bad person, he thought. He was going straight to hell. But he'd wanted this weekend to be all about him and Brendan. He'd wanted today to be as perfect as yesterday. He should really have known by now. It never lasted.

He lay and looked at the ceiling. So that was why Brendan had hired the car, he thought. Not to drive him around. He bit his lip and tried to work out in his head how long it took to get from Dublin to Belfast, and how quickly Brendan might get back to him. He didn't have a clue – his geography was pretty much worse than his history – but he reckoned it couldn't be less than a couple of hours. So that was four hours on the road minimum, and he'd want to stay as long as possible. The reality sank in. Brendan was going to be gone all day until late.

He stayed in bed and sulked a bit, knowing it was pathetic. Ordered breakfast in their room, and ate it in bed, flicking through the channels on the TV. Eventually, he got up and took a shower, feeling how empty it was without Brendan to soap him down and tease him the way he usually did. And then he pulled on some clothes and went out onto the balcony, rested his chin on his arms, and looked down at the city, feeling detached from it. Then found his eyes being drawn out towards the horizon. He could see green hills beyond the edge of the city. He wondered which direction Belfast was. Sighed. Wandered back to the bed and lay on it again, watching some sport, most of which meant almost nothing to him. Strange how all of Dublin was out there, but he just didn't feel much like going out on his own. The place had seemed so alive with Brendan in it, almost like it belonged to them in some way, like Brendan was giving it to him. Now, it just felt like a strange town, a long way from home.

In the end, he was so bored he made himself get a grip. He would take the money, go for a wander round the shops. Then at least when Brendan got back, he could say he'd actually done something and hadn't spent the whole time moping and pining for him. He had some pride left.

He managed to find his way back to the area where a lot of the gift shops were, and spent a bit of time poking about. He finally chose a couple of green Dublin zip up hoodies for Leah and Lucas, and a big bar of whisky chocolate for Amy. Then wandered up and down the main shopping street, looking in windows. He remembered Brendan telling him to get himself something new. He really didn't like this thing about Brendan buying him clothes – any money he got always went on the kids usually, or bills – but he found himself wandering into Top Shop. He hadn't even realised they had Top Shop in Ireland, but it seemed just the same, if bloody expensive. He was tempted just to get a couple of polos, like he usually did, but he stopped himself, and went for the rack of shirts. Tried on a couple, smoothing his hands over the fabric, wondering if they were good enough. He was rubbish at being smart, but he knew Brendan always looked good, and he needed to do something about it. In the end he chose a smart burgundy one, and a grey one. And as he handed the money over, and walked out with his purchase, he realised this felt pretty good. He went a bit crazy. Walked into a shoe shop and bought some new trainers. He came out smiling. He'd teach Brendan to look down on his shoes. These were fly.

But then he started to feel flat again. He was hungry. He looked around him. What he'd normally do right now was buy some chips and sit and eat them on his own somewhere – that was what he'd often done at lunchtime when him and Brendan weren't together, when there was no one to go to the pub with – and that was fine. But to be honest, he'd barely spoken to anyone except shop assistants all day, and he felt a bit lonely wandering round on his own when he was supposed to be on holiday. He was starting to wonder if he'd forgotten how to speak.

He found himself drifting back up over the river to O'Connell Street, thinking about retreating to the hotel, where at least he could put the TV on and not look like a billy-no-mates. But then he stopped. He made a sudden decision. He'd go back to the pub they went to the day before. That Alan had been OK. He didn't think Brendan would mind.

He found it with no problems and walked in the door, savouring the warmth and the friendly voices. Looked to see if Alan was behind the bar. His heart sank. There was just some girl. He felt strangely disappointed. But he was here now, so he'd just get a beer and some peanuts or something, and sit in a corner for a bit, before he headed back.

When he was waiting to be served though, a couple of guys emerged from the quarters behind the bar, armed with boxes and crates, talking together, comfortable, laughing. Alan, and another guy. Alan stopped when he saw Ste at the bar, and Ste nodded, a bit self-consciously.

Alan dumped the boxes he was carrying behind the counter, and straightened up.

"All right, Stephen?" he asked him, smiling, surprised. He didn't sound unwelcoming. He turned to his partner. "This is Stephen – I told you about him yesterday, yeah?"

"Sure," the other guy said, the guy who must be Paul, holding out a hand, and looking a bit curious. "Good to meet ye, Stephen."

Ste winced a bit. "It's Ste really," he said. "Everyone calls me Ste. Only Brendan calls me Stephen."

Alan laughed a bit. "Yeah," he said. "That sounds like Bren. He marches to his own drum that one."

Ste suddenly felt a bit disloyal. "I've just come in for a quick beer, really," he said.

"No Brendan today?" Alan asked him, his eyebrows raised.

Ste shook his head. "He's gone to see his kids." There was a slight hesitation. "I knew he was going though." Even to him, that sounded a bit unconvincing. He felt himself blushing a bit.

Alan glanced briefly at Paul, and then stepped in. "Tell you what," he said, "let me get you this one."

"No," Ste said, suddenly, getting out some of the money, "I'll get me own." He held out a note, and shrugged. "It's Brendan's money anyway. Might as well spend it."

Alan laughed again, short. "Yeah, that sounds like Brendan too. Generous to a fault … when he feels like it. Guinness?"

Ste wrinkled his nose, not wanting to offend the locals. "Just a bottle of lager's fine. And some peanuts or something."

Alan looked at him, thoughtful. "You eaten Ste?"

He shook his head. "I don't need much."

Alan was decisive. "You'll eat. We do food here. Pie and chips do ya?"

Ste was embarrassed by the generosity. "I dunno …"

"Don't be soft," Alan said. "You're a guest, mate. Can't have you telling Bren we didn't look after you." He pushed the bottle of beer across the bar at him and took the money. "Go and grab a seat somewhere and I'll bring it over."

Ste felt grateful. And hungry. "Sure," he nodded, "OK," and wandered off to find a quiet corner.

About fifteen minutes later, Alan brought the food over to him, and pulled up a stool. Ste was struck again by the feeling that this was a guy who had a story to tell, who had lived a bit. Like Brendan had. Like he understood things that maybe Ste was only just starting to understand.

"Mind if I sit?" he asked, and Ste just shook his head. "Get stuck in, then," Alan added, laughing at him, in a friendly enough way. "Paul does the cooking and he'll want to see a clean plate."

The food was great, with loads of gravy, the way he liked it. Alan looked at him, amused, as he started to demolish it. It reminded him just a bit of the way Brendan looked at him sometimes. He guessed it was because they were older.

They chatted for a while, about Dublin, about life in Chester, Cheryl, the club. And about what Brendan had been like when Alan first met him, a skinny little scrote, but always tall, and god did he love that moustache he grew so effortlessly, that was better than everyone else's bumfluff. Ste had laughed, unconsciously moving a finger to his own top lip that was never more than a bit downy really, and remembering Brendan running his thumb across it, teasing him, until that thumb had found its way into his mouth. He blushed at the memory. Felt a surge of heat in his pelvis, as Alan continued to tell him about him, and Brendan, and Pete, and some of the others, getting up to some trouble.

And then Alan stopped, and steered the conversation in a different direction. One he'd obviously been meaning to get round to, for some time.

"So," Alan said, fixing him with brown eyes. "You and Brendan, then."

"What about me and Brendan?" Ste asked him, feeling just a bit defensive. It was always difficult to know who knew what about them, and how they would respond.

Alan smiled. "Been together long?"

Ste shook his head. "Couple of months." He wrinkled his forehead. "I've known him for ages though. Over a year. We were on and off for a while. But now we're on. Properly, I mean." He looked back at Alan, who just carried on smiling, and nodding.

He was always surprised, at how much information seemed to come out of his mouth when he opened it. He was sure he hadn't meant to say much about him and Brendan. But Alan had these big brown eyes that seemed to invite confidence. And actually, he liked it. Maybe this was what he'd come here for, he realised, to talk about Brendan.

Alan was fixing him with a particular look again. His mouth was smiling but his eyes were serious. "And … is everything OK?" His voice was careful, neutral.

Ste looked back at him, as a pause lengthened.

"Yeah," he said, eventually, meeting his gaze. He could feel himself blushing a bit, but he forced himself to go on, sensing that Alan understood something about the situation. "It wasn't … but it's OK now."

Alan was still nodding. "Good," he said. "That's good."

There was another pause, as Ste finished up his plate of food, and Alan watched.

"Have you met Bren's family?" Alan asked, suddenly. It seemed like a strange question to Ste. He frowned.

"Well … yeah, Cheryl, obviously, she's one of my best mates. And I met his wife once. She came over when they were worried about the kids. Not really properly though. And I'd love to see the kids. I've got kids of me own."

Alan looked at him with a bit of surprise, and Ste felt that defensive feeling again. "I was dead young," he said. "I didn't know what I wanted. But I'm glad I've got them now. Wouldn't be without them." He thought of them, proudly.

"You've not met Brendan's Dad then?" Alan asked him.

Ste shrugged. "No, why would I? Is he here?"

Alan shook his head slowly, thoughtful. "No, he's in Belfast. In a home I think, now. Bad chest. Terrible old bastard, in some ways," Alan said, looking at Ste, directly. "Totally charming in others. Know what I mean?"

Ste nodded, but felt a bit confused. He knew Brendan and Cheryl's Dad was in Belfast really. He remembered Cheryl saying she was going to visit him, and Brendan avoiding the subject. He knew that Brendan's Mum had struggled for money, because Brendan had told him. That she had got sick of always being behind with the rent, and when he was eight, she had packed up everything they had into her knackered old Metro and done a flit in the middle of the night, driving him up across the border to Belfast. That they were dangerous times to be crossing borders at two in the morning, and he remembered them being stopped and the car searched and how he had hated it, the flashlights. That she had tracked down his Dad and confronted him. That life had got a bit easier once she managed to extract some money from him. That she had died of breast cancer when he was he was thirteen, and he had felt very alone, but had gone to live with Cheryl, her Mum, and their Dad. That Cheryl's Mum was still in Belfast, in her own little house now, one they had bought her. That she had been kind to him, but he'd always felt like the cuckoo in the nest. Out of place - his accent, his history, his everything.

"Has Brendan talked much about him?" Alan asked him, his voice still neutral, even.

Ste thought about it. He really hadn't. He'd talked about feeling under pressure, pressure to be a particular sort of person, tough, in control, always in control. He'd talked about feeling trapped, not able to escape. About being told to grow up and be a man, and not knowing what it meant. He knew Brendan's Dad was caught up in all that somehow. He knew when he'd told Brendan that his step-Dad had beat him, Brendan had gone very still, and quiet. And later he'd found him down in the cellar at Chez Chez, literally throwing crates against the walls, and he had had to stop him, and he had kissed him, feeling how much they both needed it, and they had ended up on the floor having sex again, where it all started, as if there was something they had to prove.

Ste shook his head, eventually. There wasn't much of that he was prepared to share, no matter how much this Alan seemed like a good bloke. "Not much, no."

Alan nodded, quiet. And then suddenly, he seemed to shake himself out of his brown study. "Ah sod him," Alan said. "Looks like Brendan Brady's his own man, now, am I right?"

"Hope so," Ste said, still feeling a bit lost, but realising there was something important there.

"He looks well, anyway," Alan said, grinning at him.

He felt himself blushing again. That was one thing he always thought about Brendan, that he looked well. He looked frigging amazing. It only took Brendan to walk into a room to make his breath catch, and his balls ache, even now. Knowing he was the one who got to undress him, and be undressed by him, was just the cherry on top. Thinking that maybe he was something to do with Brendan looking well, that he gave him something that gave him that extra bit of swagger, actually made him feel happy.

Alan laughed at his silent blush. "I should probably get some work done," he said, gesturing with his head behind him to the bar. "No rest for the wicked." He winked.

Ste felt a sense of disappointment, almost. He'd been hoping to stay a bit longer, hear a bit more about Brendan's past. What him and Alan and Pete had been like at school. But he got up.

"Yeah," he said. "I should go too. Brendan might be back."

He knew it sounded lame, that there was no way, and that they both knew it.

Alan held out his hand, friendly, and Ste shook it. He had a firm grip.

"Look after him, Ste," Alan said, unexpectedly, putting his other hand on Ste's upper arm. "He's all right."

Ste was surprised. He returned the pressure of Alan's handshake. He often felt like people Brendan's age treated him like a boy, like he was clueless. But this felt man-to-man.

"I will," he said.

And Alan released him. He gathered up his bags and headed for the door. Before he left, he turned. Alan was back at the bar, but was watching him leave. He held up a hand, and smiled. Ste returned the gesture and walked back out into the street.

He wandered back to the hotel, feeling thoughtful. It had never really occurred to him before that he needed to look after Brendan. He wasn't sure he really knew how, or if Brendan would want him to. Brendan was the one who did the looking after. Ste sometimes got the urge to cook for him, that was something he felt he could do, but on the whole, it was Brendan who took care of business. On this trip, it had been Brendan who had booked the tickets, who had brought him here, who had taken him out, who had put the gambling chips into his hands and who had raked them up and put them back in there to make sure he didn't waste them all. It was Brendan who paid. Brendan was always looking after everyone, Cheryl as well. He thought of Brendan, now, with his kids, how he felt about them. He knew what that felt like. It was one of the first things he'd realised he and Brendan had in common, that they would both protect their kids from the world, do anything for them. He knew what it was like to protect and care for someone who was vulnerable. Someone you had to pick up when they fell. Someone who needed you. Everyone needed someone who completely had their back, he supposed.

When he got back to their room, he had a sudden urge to speak to his kids. He reached for the hotel phone and dialled Mike's number in Manchester. Mike sounded surprised when he picked up, but Ste just said he was missing them, and Mike called Leah to the phone. He spent a few minutes asking her what she'd been up to, and what stories Grandad Mike had been telling her, and he told her about the present he'd bought her, and where he was, the boat he'd been on, and how Daddy's friend Brendan had gone to see his own kids today. It didn't really matter much what they said, he just felt reassured, hearing her voice, chattering on. When he finally put the phone down, he just felt an intense sense of relief that he would see her the next evening. And felt, not for the first time, how hard this must be for Brendan.

He kicked off his shoes and settled back on the bed to watch telly into the evening with a couple of beers.

As he'd thought, it was easily ten o'clock before he heard Brendan's key card in the door of the room. He looked up as Brendan entered. It was still on the tip of his tongue to ask him why the hell he'd gone off without saying anything, but he could see the tiredness in Brendan's back as he threw the key card down on the table, and the car keys, and shrugged off his jacket, stretching his shoulders.

"Hi," was all Ste said, in the end.

Brendan just grunted a bit, looked round over his shoulder and gave him something vaguely like a smile. And then turned away again and poured himself a shot of whiskey. Walked over to the windows, slid them back, and walked straight out onto the balcony.

Ste lay, unsure what to do. He didn't expect Brendan to be all over him every second of every day, but a kiss would've been nice. He got up and followed him quietly onto the balcony, where Brendan was leaning on the balustrade, cradling the whiskey and looking out over the city lights in the darkness.

"You all right?" Ste asked him, carefully.

He hesitated for a moment. "Doesn't get any easier," he said, looking at Ste, briefly, meaningfully, and then back out at the night.

Ste wondered if he meant saying goodbye to his kids, or telling people about him. Maybe it was a mixture of the two. He felt a sudden sense of responsibility.

He stood beside him, close, and watched as Brendan knocked back the last of the whiskey. And then Ste made a decision. He reached out and took the empty glass out of Brendan's hands, and put it down. And then he did something he hadn't done for a while, because he'd got lazy, and he usually let Brendan take the lead. He reached over and put his hand over Brendan's clasped hands.

"I know this must be really hard for you," Ste said. "All this." And he meant all of it. Being far from home, his family. Trying to be with him.

Brendan looked down at Ste's hand over his own, for a moment, as if he was thinking. And then he just opened his hands a little, and let Ste's slide between his own. It felt completely natural, like it belonged there. He felt his fingers interlock with Brendan's. It was warm in there. Safe.

Brendan shook his head, and then looked back at him. "Not all of it," was all he said. And they looked at each other. Ste felt warmth spreading over his body.

"Tell you what," Ste said, suddenly, leaning his shoulder against Brendan's, "I'll run us a bath if you like."

Brendan looked at him, a bit quizzical. "A bath?"

"Yeah," Ste said, grinning at him, "a bath. You know, that thing you lie in with the hot water. You're knackered. You should take a bath."

Brendan was still half frowning, half smiling at him. He laughed, a bit dismissive. "I don't need …"

Ste interrupted. "Yeah, you do. Everyone likes a bath sometimes. I'll run you a bath." And he pulled his hand back and walked off to the en suite and opened the taps on the bath full, and dumped towels on the heated rail. The steam started to rise.

Brendan appeared in the door, and followed him in, slowly, the same slightly quizzical expression on his face.

"What's got into you, Stephen?" he asked, but Ste ignored him. He tested the water, shut off the taps, and turned back to him.

"Come on then," he said, pulling his own T shirt up over his head and dumping it on a chair. He continued to undress, knowing Brendan was looking at him in a very particular way now, head slightly on one side, and eyes hooded, and Ste smiled to himself, turned away, knowing where it was heading.

When he was stark naked, he turned around. Brendan was still watching him. He held his face up to him. "Get on with it," he said, jutting his chin out, being cheeky, "I'm not getting in on my own." Brendan leant down for a kiss, but he just pulled away. "Uh uh," he said. "Get these off first." He pulled at the front of Brendan's sweater, and then stepped away, got into the bath, and sat back in it, feeling the heat spread through him.

Brendan rolled his eyes with a slightly martyred expression, and humphed a bit. And then started to shed his own clothes. Ste lay and watched him. He wanted him, obviously. He had the strongest back and shoulders and arms of anyone he'd ever known. He loved the tattoo which covered one of his upper arms. He loved the hair which trailed, thick and dark, down from his belly button to his dick.

Brendan came over to the bath and stood there, looking down at him.

And I love his dick, Ste thought to himself, laughing a bit, as he looked at it.

"Shift up then," Brendan said.

Ste shook his head. "You come in front of me."

"I'll crush ya," Brendan said.

"You won't," Ste said, in return. He raised his eyebrows at him, teasing. "You never have before."

Brendan sighed again, and stepped in, turned around, sat down, and lay back, slightly tentatively, between Ste's legs, in the big bath.

They settled, Brendan resting back carefully against Ste. Ste wrapped his arms around Brendan's chest. Ste could feel Brendan's body relax into it, slightly awkward and unsure.

"So …" he started, into Brendan's ear, "how are the kids?"

"Yeah," Brendan answered, "they're good. They're doing really well."

"Declan all right after that op?" Ste went on, feeling their bodies starting to mould together in the warmth, enjoying the muscles of Brendan's back.

"Yeah," Brendan said. He frowned a bit. "Stupid really … got it into our heads it was this massive thing. Turned out to be easy to fix. Should have sorted it ages ago."

Ste rubbed his lips against Brendan's shoulder. "You didn't know, did you?"

Brendan grunted. "Guess not."

Ste felt Brendan adjust his body against his. Definitely relaxing now.

"I talked to Leah today," Ste said.

"Oh yeah?" Brendan asked him, sounding wary. "She all right?" He knew Brendan had a soft spot for Leah.

"Yeah," Ste said. "She's fine. I'll see her tomorrow night, anyway."

"Yeah," Brendan said, his voice dropping. "Yeah, you will."

Ste bit his lip, and cursed himself. He thought about tomorrow, how they were going to get back on the ferry and put a whole sea of water between Brendan and the kids he adored. It hurt more than anything, he knew. And he had put it straight back into Brendan's mind. He felt suddenly useless. He was no good at this. He struggled for something to say.

"Is it my fault?" Ste asked him, unable to keep it in, but almost choking on the words.

He felt Brendan shift and turn his head back.

"What are ye talking about, Stephen?"

"Is it my fault, that you can't be near your family? Because you're with me?"

"No," Brendan said, sounding almost shocked. "No, course not, that's … No. Just, no. All right?"

"OK," Ste nodded, still feeling choked and not quite believing it.

Brendan rested back again. "My life's … my life's in England now and you … you've got your kids there. Eileen's got Michael Doyle," the words still came out sounding a bit like bile, "and I can't …" he trailed off for a moment. "I'd never ask you to leave your kids."

Ste nodded again. "Maybe yours could come over for visits?" He felt desperate to find a way forward. He realised he just wanted Brendan's life to be bearable, and not to feel so guilty all the time, that he had his kids, and Brendan didn't.

"Sure," Brendan said. "Maybe … yeah." He found one of Ste's hands with his own, and picked it up off his chest and squeezed it, almost roughly. "But this isn't your fault," he pressed his mouth into Ste's palm, and Ste felt the rough tickle of the hair. "My marriage, my mess, my problem."

"OK," Ste said, again, softening.

"OK," Brendan said back, apparently satisfied.

They lay there for a while in the water, saying nothing. It felt strangely intimate, in a new way. Ste suddenly decided to change the subject onto something less emotional.

"Guess where I went today," he started.

Brendan seemed prepared to let himself be distracted. "Without me here to keep an eye on ya?" he said, drily, "I'm guessing you gambled away all last night's winnings on the slot machines."

Ste gave Brendan's shoulders an annoyed squeeze. "No. I went back to the pub to see Alan."

He immediately felt Brendan tense a little again. As if some part of him still wasn't comfortable with the idea that two people might talk about him, share information about him. As if he still wasn't completely used to giving up full control of every situation, control that he'd battled to hang on to for so long.

"Oh yeah?" he said. "And what did he have to say?"

Ste shrugged. "He just told me you and Pete and him got up to all sorts. And he got his boyfriend to make me dinner. I was at a bit of a loose end, and he seemed like a good bloke." Ste laughed, suddenly. "He was jealous of your tache." He put up a wet hand to Brendan's mouth, to stroke it, and felt Brendan bat it away, laughing.

Then it faded. He nodded, almost absently. "He's all right," he said.

"Funny," Ste said. "He says the same about you."

Brendan's mouth seemed to curve into an almost smile. "Does he?" He sounded amused.

"Yeah," Ste said, planting a kiss on the back of Brendan's neck, leaving his lips there, nuzzling, and being rewarded with a low growl from somewhere in Brendan's chest. "He told me to look after you." The words were out even before he could stop them. He wasn't sure what Brendan would make of them, really. He felt Brendan's hands move to his thighs, hooking under them and lifting them a bit, so they were practically wrapped around his waist from behind. Ste felt his own cock twitch with anticipation against Brendan's back.

"Is that right?" Brendan said, sounding curious. "And how are you gonna do that?"

His hands now ran up and down Ste's shins, ruffling the wet hair that lay there.

Ste leant forward and nipped the skin at the nape of Brendan's neck. "Get out of this bath," he said, "and you'll find out."

Because he suddenly realised, he knew exactly how to look after Brendan. It wasn't that hard, really. He just had to love him. He felt the water slosh as they both stood up at the same moment, and got out of the bath, and Brendan chucked a massive towel over him, and practically picked him up to carry him, both of them still half dripping, back to the hotel bed. And he would show him again exactly how much he did. He would climb onto Brendan's lap and let himself be held in the grip of those arms which was like a vice sometimes, as he made love to him and hung on round his neck for dear life, until all he could see was Brendan, and all he could taste was Brendan, his sweat salty like the sea, and all he could feel was Brendan inside him, the points at which their bodies joined, making him vibrate and explode, inside and out, and all he could hear was the sound of his heartbeat banging against Brendan's, pressed tight up close, until they both got to that moment where they let go and gave it all up and got it all back, and were left panting, clinging together like survivors of a shipwreck, exhausted and drained but mainly glad to be still breathing.

And tomorrow, they would get up early and head back to the concrete ferry port in the cold light of morning, and get back on the boat, and go home. And he didn't know if the crossing would be smooth, or if it would get a bit choppy, and a storm would blow up, and he would be left hanging on to whatever was left. But he knew what he would do now, and it was easier than he'd thought.

He would look after Brendan. Because someone had to do it. And it had better be him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Crossing Thresholds**

**Part 7: Eileen (1)**

It had been a shock to Eileen to come home and find her husband in bed with another man. And at the same time, a lot of things, some of them little, some of them not so little, things which she had barely even known she had noticed, had suddenly fallen into place and made sense for the very first time. She was supposed to be on a shopping trip with a mate, while the boys were at nursery, but she'd got all the way to the shopping centre and realised she'd forgotten her credit card. Fed up, she'd stayed for a coffee and then headed home early. And it was strange how it had happened. She could remember her feet taking her up the stairs to the bedroom and becoming aware, in some part of her brain, that there were noises coming from up there, but there couldn't be. But there were. Noises that sounded like breathing, and the bed creaking, and a kind of cry. She had still kept walking. She supposed by the time she had got there, some part of her had been prepared for finding Brendan in bed with someone else. She remembered the sight of his back, straining, the movement, someone else's knees lifted under the covers. But the little part of her brain that was still functioning had expected it would be some bored wife from the estate, someone she knew, or some unknown tart, someone he'd picked up somewhere, though it wasn't like him to bring it home. But as she stood there, her mouth slightly open, there had been a sudden springing apart, and a grabbing of the covers, and a face was revealed underneath, and it was Macca, her nephew, looking shocked. But just a little bit pleased with himself as well.

It couldn't be, could it? Because Macca was a man. And Brendan was a man.

She had backed out of the room, vaguely aware that Brendan was leaping out of bed, pulling on clothes, calling her name, low, urgent, and that Macca was calling his, as if to get him to leave it.

She had walked down the stairs again, opened the front door, walked out on the front path. And then stopped. The world seemed to spin a bit. The familiar close where they had lived for ten years looked different, but the same.

Her husband was gay.

Of course. Of course he was.

* * *

She had been attracted to Brendan Brady right from the day she met him. It was at a club. He was with some of his mates, the usual guys, a bit boorish by comparison, and she was with hers, and they ended up together, and he bought her a drink. He was charming, and well-turned out, she remembered. And funny. And not too forward. And he had this amazing, dashing moustache, that made him seem older and more sophisticated than he probably really was. At the end of the night, with the mickey being taken out of him by one of his mates, he had asked her out.

She had known from the moment he came to pick her up that she might like to marry him. He had appreciated what she was wearing, and her jewellery, which was unusual. She liked simple, classy things. Expensive things. She was used to nice things – she had her own job, only admin, but even so, her own spending money, and her Dad was a local councillor and earned a good salary. Most of the men she knew liked their women to be a bit more obvious. Brendan, on the other hand, told her that her earrings were nice, and touched them under her hair, and she had blushed. And then she had reached up and straightened his tie a bit, because it was very slightly crooked, and they had locked eyes, and he had smiled, and that had been pretty much it, for her. He did nothing to change her mind. He was the perfect gentleman. In fact he was almost too much the perfect gentleman. By the third date, he still hadn't attempted to get her into bed, so she'd had to take matters into her own hands, so to speak, and get him to come round one night when her parents were away, and ply him with wine, and then take him by the hand to the bedroom, amazed at her own boldness.

And it had been lovely. She wasn't very experienced, she supposed. She'd only slept with two men before Brendan, and they had both been less than ecstatic experiences. In fact, she'd felt almost nothing, as they plunged away, and had thought maybe she was a freak. But Brendan was very careful, and seemed to focus on her, on making it right, and it was really very nice. She came, for the first time with a man. And he held her, after. And the next day, he bought her flowers, and seemed almost sheepish.

After that, they had just fallen into a pattern. They were dating, obviously. He didn't pester her for sex all the time, which she liked. They tended to keep it to the occasional Saturday night, when one of them had somewhere they could go. And the rest of the time, he felt as much like her friend as her lover, and she'd never had that with a man before. They went to the pictures, or drinking, and talked about what they wanted to do. She knew he was rough around the edges, that he had been involved in some things she didn't want to know too much about. But he wanted to get out, he said. He wanted to be a pilot. He admitted it one night. She thought it was exciting. He had saved up some money for pilot's lessons. He even booked them. He went to the first one. Came back busting with adrenalin. It was an adventure, a shared one. They were going places.

And then she had fallen pregnant. She could hardly believe it. There they were, only having sex at weekends, and always with protection, whereas her mates were at it like rabbits, and it was her that got pregnant. She had been terrified that he would run a mile. He had looked shocked, but had said straight away that they should get married. She had been intensely grateful, and they had got on with the business of breaking it to her parents. The pilot's lessons stopped. He went back to work for his Dad. They needed the money now, he said. He seemed closed down about it. As if that was the end of it. As if they weren't to speak of it again.

The wedding had been prepared quickly. And it had all been fine until a month or so before, when he suddenly went missing for a week. She was out of her mind with worry, while her mates looked at her sidelong, and she just knew the word jilted was in their heads. But he came back. He looked very tired. He was sorry, he said. He had just had to get his head straight. He would look after her, he said. He wouldn't let her down. Or the baby.

She never knew what had driven him to leave, or to come back. She just accepted it. And they got married. She was so dazed, she didn't remember that much about it, except Brendan standing beside her in the church, nervous and emotional in a way only she could understand, and a few family and friends, and the growing bump. She had a vague recollection of Cheryl getting drunk and doing some dance routine to B*witched at the reception, and Brendan sitting with a hand over his eyes, groaning, and her laughing, and trying to prise it away. But that was pretty much all. They were married. She was twenty, he was twenty-one.

And after all that, the baby died. A little girl. They had told her at six months that the baby had no heartbeat, and would have to be delivered. Her and Brendan had sat and held hands and cried. It had been terrible. She had been tiny, and perfect, but asleep. They held her, and called her Niamh. She was buried in the local churchyard.

She had wondered, for a while, in her numbness, if Brendan would leave her, but he didn't. Actually, they seemed closer. He was very kind, protective. She let him look after her. And after a while, they slept together again. And she got pregnant fairly quickly.

The years in which the boys were born were the happiest they had. Declan first, and then Padraig, eighteen months later. Brendan was a great Dad. He amazed her. He didn't just do the fun bits. He actually got up to them in the nights. He changed nappies, and she watched, open mouthed, and teased him. And he would talk to the boys about their old Da' not being a complete waste of space, and then look at her triumphant, because he had taught himself, and give her a grin and a wink, cocky and pleased with himself and happy. With them, anyway, he was happy – he didn't always seem happy when he was out in the world. But when he was at home with them, she really loved him then. When the boys were about three and one, thriving, chubby, happy guys, on the mornings he didn't have to work he would let her stay in bed, and she would come down in her dressing gown and find him serving them up boiled eggs and soldiers, and then helping them to eat them. He read stories to them at night, whenever he was around. He put Declan on his first bike, a little later, and then watched him set off without stabilisers for the first time. He was obviously busting with pride. She thought she saw him wiping away a tear, and it moved her.

She knew there were things he didn't tell her. Things about work. They operated a don't ask, don't tell policy. As long as he brought the money in, she didn't ask too many questions. They had mouths to feed, and Brendan wanted his boys to lack nothing.

It had only started to change when he went away to work in Liverpool. Just beforehand, he had got involved in something, and it didn't seem to go very well. He needed to lie low for a bit, he said. And his Dad had some contact from London, some guy called Danny Houston, who needed someone to run a club for him over in England. She hated the idea, but he said he had to go. It wouldn't be forever. He would ring the boys regularly, and send money home. What about me, she thought, what about me? He had kissed her on the hair, and left quickly.

He was gone for about eight months. He was as good as his word, sending money when he could. But the phone calls became less frequent. And when they did speak, it was almost all about the boys. She realised after a few months, that she barely knew what he was doing. And he barely asked her what she was up to. How she felt, at home alone with two boys who kept asking when Daddy was coming home.

He came back as suddenly as he had left, almost without warning. And he just seemed … different. As if part of him had withdrawn from her, and was locked away. He was moody, in a way he hadn't been at home before. As if he was walking around under a cloud. But he wouldn't talk to her about it. Whatever it was he had done, or seen, he didn't seem able to share it with her. And he didn't seem to want to share much else with her either. They barely slept together. Tried, a few times, but it felt unconvincing. She felt tired, and let it go, for now.

After a couple of months, she came home one day and found him sitting at the table, silent, the newspaper open in front of him. His face was like stone.

"What is it?" she asked him, looking over his shoulder to see what he was reading.

"Nothing." The word was almost mumbled.

She saw the headline of the article.

_**Local boy killed**_

_Local Belfast boy, Vincent Malone (19), was killed on Tuesday night in a road accident outside Liverpool, where he had been working. No other vehicles seem to have been involved but the police have appealed for witnesses to the incident. His parents are bringing his body home for burial, and thanked all of Vincent's friends for their tributes. "Vinnie was the sunshine of our lives," Mrs Malone said, "but he has been taken away from us too soon …"_

There was a picture of a young face, smiling, fair hair. There was something fragile about him, Eileen thought.

"Did you know him?" she asked, her hand on Brendan's shoulder.

The gesture seemed to wake him.

"No," he said, closing the paper, and getting up. He shook his head. "No."

It was only when he had walked out the door that she realised the cup of coffee in front of him, untouched, was stone cold.

After that, they had settled in to a pattern. Brendan went away a lot on business. To Dublin, a lot. London. Barcelona. She wondered if he was seeing other women, but never asked. He always brought stuff back for the kids, and for a while, they would be in the money, but it was hard. She was alone a lot. And she was tempted. An old school friend of hers, a solicitor now, was back in town, a guy called Michael Doyle. He asked her to meet him for a coffee, and she went. They hit it off really well. She hadn't laughed that much, or felt that attractive, for a long time. She knew perfectly well what was on offer when they got up to leave. But she still went home to her boys. All three of them. She wasn't quite ready to give up on Brendan just yet. She had always been nothing if not stubborn. And she had other things to worry about, because Declan wasn't well. He was uncoordinated, always bumping into things. At first, she had thought he was being clumsy, and had got annoyed with him, but as the bruises kept coming, she felt increasingly guilty. She took him to the doctor and went through every diagnosis she could think of. Stuff she had never heard of. Dyspraxia was mentioned. She just wanted it to stop. Ironically, it brought her and Brendan closer together again, while putting them under more strain. And then there was Macca.

He had come to stay with them after her sister rang her one day in despair. Macca had come home from Uni and come out to his Dad, cheeky as fuck. Sean had gone ballistic and thrown him out of the house. Would she put him up for a while, just while the dust settled? Eileen thought about it. She'd always liked Macca, he was a funny lad, always joking, and he got on well with Dec and Paddy. Her sister was almost ten years older than she was, and Macca had always felt more like a cousin than a nephew, more like an equal. But she was a bit worried about Brendan. She'd heard him say some pretty strange things about gay people sometimes. Words like queer had been used. She wasn't bothered one way or another, herself. But in the end, she just thought, damn, it's still half my house. And when she told Brendan, he protested, but let himself be talked round. He didn't really do much more than look martyred, and sigh, and ask how long for.

So Macca came, and to her surprise, it was OK. Initially, Brendan seemed wary of him. But one night when he was off drinking, he suddenly turned round and asked Macca if he wanted to go along. And Macca looked a bit surprised in turn, but it was a friendly enough gesture, and off they went, leaving her with her feet up in front of the TV. She was actually pleased to see Brendan making an effort. And it turned into quite a regular thing. And then they stopped out a couple of times. Brendan would ring her; they were too drunk to come home, he said, they were stopping over with some mate. And they would be back the next morning, usually separately, like a couple of alley cats. That wasn't so funny, actually, she started to drop hints to Macca about when he might find his way back home, or to a mate's house. But she tolerated it, for the sake of family harmony. And Brendan seemed a bit more cheerful, at any rate. Had a bit of his mojo back, laughing, joking.

And then one day she had forgotten her credit card, and come home, and found them in bed together. And it had all fallen into place.

* * *

She had stood on the garden path, her life with Brendan flashing in front of her eyes, and she was suddenly absolutely incandescent with rage. What was she doing, walking out? She was going nowhere. This was her home, and her children's home, and they could go. She turned round and walked back in.

Brendan had already been at the bottom of the stairs, Macca following on behind. She had pushed straight past Brendan, grabbed Macca by the shoulder, and thrown him out of the front door, still half-dressed. She slammed it, shutting her and Brendan in together. She looked at him.

"Don't say a word," she had hissed. And then went upstairs to the room where Macca had been staying, put his things into bin bags, roughly, and taken them back to the front door and thrown them out. She vaguely remembered that he had still been there, looking truly shocked now as he watched his stuff spill out of the bags onto the grass, but she had told him she never wanted to see him again, and to get out. Of the two of them, she hated him far more. She had brought him into her home, and he had betrayed her.

And then there had been just her and Brendan. They had sat, for a long time. She had had to extract bits of information from him, slowly, painfully. It was a one-off, he said. Never happened before. It was nothing. He wasn't gay. It was just … nothing … sex, an experiment. Confusion. She didn't really believe a word of it, except maybe the confusion part.

She actually found herself feeling sorry for him. He didn't know what he was. She wondered if he had been unhappy for a very long time. All his life, maybe.

She made him move out while they decided what to do, though she didn't deny him access to the boys. She never would. He moved into a B&B. But then a week or so after, Declan had come home from school upset. Dad had come to see him at the school gates while he was playing out, he said. Said he was going away for a while, to see Auntie Cheryl. Had given him a letter to give to his Mum. Had taken Declan by the shoulders and told him not to cry, he needed to be the man of the house and look after them all now, his Mum, and Padraig. And then he had gone.

After Declan had been comforted, she finally opened the letter. It just said

_I did love you. I'm sorry. I'll send money. B_

And she knew then that the marriage was over.

He had been as good as his word, making sure the bank balance was topped up, and ringing to speak to the boys at least once a week. And after a while, as the boys adjusted, things weren't so bad. She had been used to managing alone, and now she allowed herself to start seeing Michael, just quietly, for a date or two, for the company. If it hadn't been for Declan's illness, it wouldn't have been too bad, but he seemed to be getting worse. She was getting all kinds of looks now from the teachers at his school, who kept asking her about how she was managing as a single parent, and whether she was under strain, whether she was "coping." It was Michael who'd told her to try a private consultation, but they would need more money. She had headed off for a friend's wedding in Manchester, and had resolved to call in on Brendan. She had been wary. But it all seemed pretty normal. He was living and working with Cheryl. He seemed much like his old self. She wasn't quite sure what she'd been expecting, whether there would be boys hanging round him or something, but she didn't notice anything particularly, unless it was that lad who worked behind the bar who he seemed to get on with, but he had kids of his own, Cheryl had told her. Things between her and Brendan had been amicable at first, but if anything, he was the one who seemed under pressure, and she'd had to hassle him a bit about the money. She had been shocked to find out that he'd told Cheryl that she was the one who'd had the affair, but she found she didn't care all that much. She had other priorities. Eventually, he came up with the cash. As always, she knew she probably shouldn't ask where it had come from. She had gone home, booked Declan in for a consultation, and almost immediately starting sleeping with Michael. It was clear to her that Brendan was living in a separate world now. And she was pleasantly surprised to find that having sex with someone who actually liked women's bodies was a very enjoyable experience. She was glad she was still young enough, after ten years of marriage, to find that out.

She heard very little else, and got on with her life. She picked up a few things about Macca through the family grapevine. First some strange stuff about bruises. Then later that he had made a trip to England, not long after she had, but that he had been back six weeks later with his tail between his legs. She had felt a sense of intense pleasure that she knew was immature but enjoyed nonetheless. And then Brendan had come home for a few days, at Christmas. He had spent most of it with the boys, but had got called back. Something to do with work - that Danny guy again. The boys had been upset. So had Brendan. He'd seemed subdued, that visit. And he definitely didn't seem to want to go back early. But he went anyway. And that was that, apart from the phone calls to the boys, and she often let them pick up the phone themselves these days.

So it was a surprise, in many ways, to get a call from Brendan, all these months later, saying he needed to talk. He was coming over to Dublin, he said. But he would come up on the Saturday. Michael agreed to steer clear, give them some space.

He had looked pretty well, she thought, when he turned up. Brendan Brady always looked good, she remembered that. He spent time with the boys, as he always did, and showered them with gifts, as he always did. Then she sent them off to play in the back garden, so Mummy and Daddy could talk.

They had sat at the same table where they had talked before, when he had been reading the paper that day, and after she had come home and found him with Macca. Where they could see the boys playing, Declan so much more happily now.

"So?" she said. "You wanted to talk."

"Yeah," he said, turning his coffee cup around on the table top. There was a pause.

"Well?" she said, trying to look encouraging.

He cleared his throat. "I've met someone," he said.

She let this sink in. "You've met someone," she repeated back. It was hard not to get the image of another woman out of her mind. She knew from Cheryl that he'd been seeing some girl for a while, though she had no idea how that worked. She didn't feel threatened by other women. They would be dupes as much as she had been.

"As in, a relationship?" she asked him.

He nodded. "Yeah," was all he seemed able to say.

There was another pause. She scrutinized his face, and decided she would have to help him out.

"And do they have a name, this someone? Is it as daft as the last one?" She couldn't help getting a little dig in.

He cleared his throat again. It seemed to be costing him something to speak. "Stephen," he said. "His name's Stephen." He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes narrowing as his face disappeared behind the mug.

She let it sink in. A man. Brendan had come to tell her that he was with a man. She had known it would happen, obviously, but it hadn't been completely real until now. She had never really thought he would do it. Admit it, come out. She felt the world shifting round her a bit, unfamiliar, and had to fix on her sons through the window to ground her. They were shooting at each other with the water pistols Brendan had given them. Bang, you're dead, she thought. She took a deep breath, steadying herself.

"And where is he now, this Stephen?" she asked him, praying quietly that he wasn't waiting out in the car so she would have to meet him.

"Back in Dublin," Brendan said. "He came over with me."

"Right," she nodded. She felt partly relieved, but again, her mouth seemed slightly beyond her control today. "Romantic break for two, is it?"

"Eileen," he said, his voice low, "this is hard enough as it is."

She felt slightly ashamed, and nodded.

"And he's a good bloke," Brendan went on, his voice quiet. "He's got kids of his own."

She lifted her coffee to her lips, and felt an unbelievable bitterness wash over her. The bastard. The one thing. The one thing that she'd thought only she could give Brendan, the one thing no one else would be able to give him now, the one thing no man could give him. Kids. And this Stephen had provided them as well. There was no doubt about it. She felt completely replaced.

"I want you to come over," Brendan was saying to her. "Bring the boys. Just … when you're ready, you know."

She looked at his face, and felt suddenly sorry. He looked vulnerable. There had always been a vulnerable side to Brendan. One only she had been allowed to see, she thought. But she wasn't ready. She wasn't ready. "The boys?" she asked him.

"Yeah," he said. "You don't have to tell them … everything. I'd want you all to come over anyway, you know that."

"But … you want me to meet … him?" she asked.

"Stephen," he said, sounding more definite now. "Yeah. Think about it, Eileen."

She found herself getting up and walking over to the French windows, almost without thinking about it. Opened them up to call the boys back in.

"OK," she said. "Maybe."

And then the boys were there, noisy, and excited, and it gave them a chance not to talk to each other anymore. And Brendan sat and played games with them instead, and then took them out on their bikes for a bit. He stayed while they ate their tea, and sat with them while they went to bed. And then he tore himself away, looking distracted. He had kissed her on the cheek, like he used to, before she could stop him. And he was gone.

She had put it off, obviously. She was disappointed in herself, because it was her who'd urged him not to live a lie after she'd found him with Macca. She had realised, suddenly, that he was destroying himself, and she couldn't bear it. Now here he was, what felt like a million years later, out, and she wasn't sure she could bear that either. It had never occurred to her that she'd actually have to see it. And it had never actually occurred to her that he might actually fall in love. He had loved her. She was the only person he'd ever loved that way. He'd told her that, and it was the one thing she had actually believed.

It was Cheryl who persuaded her, in the end. She had phoned one evening, after the boys were in bed, and had refused to get off the bloody thing until Eileen had accepted the invitation. It would be fine, Cheryl had said. If she could accept that Brendan was with a guy, she who had been lied to all Brendan's life, and who had been furious with him, excluded and betrayed, then Eileen could too. She must come over, stay in the flat. Please, Cheryl urged her. Do it for me. You know I love those boys. And really, Ste is a sweetie. You'll love him.

She had agreed, reluctantly, without even really meaning to. Cheryl was less persuasive than just impossible to withstand. She put the phone down. Ste, she thought to herself, wrinkling up her nose. Ste, Ste, Ste. She didn't like the sound of him, long or short. But she laughed at herself as well, exasperated. It was childish. She had Michael, pouring her a glass of wine. She had no reason to feel threatened. She would go.


	8. Chapter 8

**Crossing Thresholds**

**Part 8: Eileen (2)**

She was still surprised by how nervous she felt as she came through arrivals at John Lennon Airport. It was a relief to see just Brendan standing there, waiting for them, the usual insouciant chewing of the gum, his arms wide open for the boys when he saw them. She followed on behind as the boys ran over, even though they were getting older now and Declan was a bit too cool for school these days, he still couldn't seem to stop himself. It was impossible to deny that there had been something missing in their lives, with Brendan gone. For all of them, maybe. Brendan whisked them back to Chester in the car, and for a while, it was full of their voices, happy, and she started to almost relax.

When they got back to the flat, she looked around her, braced, but there was still no sign of the mysterious Stephen. There was only Cheryl, making a big fuss, and taking her bags, and insisting she sit down and have tea, and the boys jumping on the sofas. It surprised her a little. But it carried on in the same vein. They took the boys into the village to let off some steam, kicked a football around in the park a bit, and came back via the skate park, where Declan borrowed a skateboard so he could show his Dad how he could now stay on his feet and make a proper stop. A miracle, considering the year before he had barely been able to stay on his feet. Brendan ruffled his hair, clearly prouder than proud, and then took them all for burgers and chips at a local diner, following it up with ice cream sodas. She watched him, carefully, her husband, her ex-husband, she supposed, soon, as he indulged them. He seemed in his element. But there was still no Stephen.

At times, it even hurt a bit to watch Brendan with the boys. That night, as they were put to bed in the room he had vacated for them, Brendan had wanted to read to them, as he'd used to. Declan had looked at him like he was mad. "I'm eight! I read me own stories now, Dad," he said, and opened the book he'd brought with him, and for a moment, for the first time, she could see Brendan wince with the pain of what he was missing.

It was only when Brendan had left them that night, going off to spend the night with Stephen, she presumed, because the flat was bursting, that Eileen sat down to ask Cheryl about it. Cheryl had sighed, pouring them both large glasses of red wine.

"Give him a chance, Eileen," she said. "I think he just needed a last day with the boys. You know, before things change a bit."

Eileen nodded, sipping the wine. It made her feel just a bit sad. They were letting go, she thought, of what they had been, as a family. But at the same time, she was starting to want to get this damn meeting out of the way. Maybe once they did, they could all move on with our lives.

Brendan was back early the next morning to share breakfast with them, sitting with the boys on the sofa while they sat in pyjamas and ate coco pops and watched kids' TV and talked ten to the dozen to him. When they went off to get dressed, she decided to tackle him, and asked him what the plan for the day was. He looked very slightly shifty.

"Thought we could take them to the playground for a bit this morning. Then I'll take them to the movies this afternoon, and you and Chez can go shopping or something."

Still no mention of Ste. This was getting ridiculous, she thought. She wondered if he'd chickened out of the whole thing. But she shrugged. "OK, sounds fine." If he could be a coward, she could be too, right? God knows, she had never wanted any of this.

It was at the playground in the park that it finally happened. They had been there for about five minutes, the boys running round and trying out the climbing frames, swings, and slides, Brendan watching out for them, and her taking the chance to sit on a bench a little way off and let him take the strain, when she noticed a young guy heading towards them pushing a toddler in a pushchair, a little girl walking beside him. They were the only two families there. She didn't pay much attention to him as he came across the grass, he looked very ordinary, but it became more obvious the closer he got that he was heading right towards them. And then a couple of yards from them, he stopped. Looked a bit sheepish.

"Hiya Brendan," he said.

She looked at him, curiously. Tallish. Slim. Dark blond hair, short at the sides, but flopped down over his forehead. Very attractive, actually, once you really looked at him. Badly dressed, trackies and trainers. But still attractive, no missing that, beautiful skin, blue green eyes. Her brain, apparently very slow this morning, started to whir.

"Hi," Brendan said, looking equally awkward and staring away slightly into the middle distance. Then glancing back at her, and pointing vaguely at him. "Eileen, this is Stephen."

She felt a flush rise up the back of her neck and over the top of her head. She had been set up. And she hadn't even had a chance to prepare herself. She looked at the lad who was Stephen, her mouth slightly open. He actually looked almost as awkward as she felt, and for some reason, this made it slightly easier. He grinned, nervously. He was a bit dimply, she thought to herself. He stepped up and held out his hand.

"All right?" he said.

She took his hand, almost unconsciously. But then, by a huge effort, pulled herself together. She smiled.

"Good to meet you, Stephen."

He laughed, dropping her hand. "You can call me Ste if you like. Almost everybody does."

She saw him sneak a look at Brendan, almost cheeky. Brendan cleared his throat, slightly, and looked up at the sky.

"All right, Ste," she said, going along with it, almost enjoying Brendan's discomfort right at that moment. "These two yours?" She pointed to the little girl and the boy in the pushchair.

Ste immediately seemed to relax a bit. He smiled. "Yeah. This is Leah, and Lucas." He pointed to them. "Say hello to Eileen, Leah. Eileen is Brendan's … well she's a friend of Brendan's. You know, like Daddy and Mummy are friends now."

Eileen winced a bit at the description, but Leah was looking at her with big blue eyes. She smiled.

"Hello," Leah said.

Eileen smiled back, but found herself feeling strangely choked under the little girl's scrutiny. Ste meanwhile was unclipping Lucas from the pushchair.

"Eileen and Brendan have kids as well, Leah," he was saying. He looked around him, and caught sight of them, playing on the swings. He paused, and looked up at Brendan, who looked back down at him.

"Is that your Declan and Padraig?" he asked him.

Brendan nodded. "Yeah. You wanna … you wanna meet them?" Ste nodded, and Brendan turned to Eileen. "That OK?"

She shrugged. It had to happen sometime. Better really while she was here to oversee it, make sure they were OK with it. "Sure," she said, and watched as Brendan led Ste and the two children across to where the boys were playing. As he told them this was his friend, Stephen. As they looked at him, and said hello, a bit shy. And then went back to playing, unconcerned.

She found herself left alone on the bench, with the empty pushchair parked beside her. She could have got up, she thought, gone over there, but it seemed wrong. And it was impossible not to feel excluded. On the outside. She pulled her coat around her.

It was strange, watching them together over there. Could she really imagine them together? As in lovers, together? They didn't touch each other, as they walked around the playground, picking kids off climbing frames, or watching them come down off slides. But they did look at each other, from time to time, glancing. And walked closer to each other, and exchanged a few words. And she looked at the way Ste smiled, teasing, probably relieved to have got it out of the way. And the way Brendan couldn't seem to help himself smiling back, and then he would frown again, and walk off, and Ste would watch him go, still smiling. Yes. Yes, she could see that they were lovers. Did it hurt? Yes, it did. But not, to her surprise, as much as she thought it might do. At least he hadn't deliberately stolen Brendan away from her, like Macca had. It was impossible to be angry with him, as she had been angry, for over a year now.

She found herself wondering how old Ste was. Quite a bit younger than Brendan, by the looks of it. She wondered what in God's name could Brendan have in common with him. At times, Ste didn't look much more than a boy himself. Her own kids were going through a Knights and Castles phase, and Brendan had bought them both plastic swords at the shop. At one point, Dec and Paddy were fighting with them, but Paddy dropped his and went off to try the climbing frame with his Dad. Apparently without thinking too much, Ste picked it up and took his place, and she sat and watched them, Ste and her Declan, fighting it out as the plastic blades clashed. She could hear them both, laughing. And then Ste let Declan get him, and collapsed to his knees, and fell onto the ground, claiming Dec had done for him. Dec found this very amusing. Brendan wandered over, and looked down at Ste for a moment.

"Get up, Stephen," she heard him say.

Ste seemed to resist for a moment, laughing. Brendan rolled his eyes and held out a hand. Ste took it, and levered himself back up to standing, still grinning. They stood, for a moment, looking at each other, and then Brendan dropped his hand and walked off, following Declan back over to his brother.

What a child, she thought. He couldn't be more than twenty-one, twenty-two. What kind of person has two kids by that age? And then she remembered herself, pregnant at twenty, and realised she was in no position to throw stones. She sighed.

She was saved from her isolation, and her thoughts, by the sight of Leah, walking over to her and standing in front of the bench. She held out a couple of slightly withered daisies. She had lovely fair hair, Eileen thought to herself. Niamh had been dark, like Brendan.

"Those for me?" Eileen asked her. She nodded. "They're lovely," she said. "Want to come and sit down ?" She nodded again, and got up on the bench, with a bit of help. She looked at Eileen.

"Boys are stupid," she said. Eileen wondered if Leah was maybe feeling as left out as she was. It was strangely comforting to have the company.

She laughed, looking across at the two men and three boys who outnumbered them. "They can be, sure. But girls can be quite silly too sometimes. And boys have their uses." She looked down at Leah. "I'm sure your little brother isn't stupid."

"He cries at night," Leah said, practically. "I want a sister."

Eileen sighed, again. "I would have loved to have a little girl," she said. Her heart ached. Then she smiled. "But I don't love my boys any less. You might find you like boys more later."

"Mummy says that," Leah said. "And Lee says that too. Lee's very silly."

Eileen laughed again. "Is he? Is Lee Mummy's boyfriend?"

Leah nodded. "Lee is Mummy's boyfriend. And Brendan is Daddy's boyfriend."

Eileen almost choked. Leah was, what, four? And she was dealing with this better than pretty much anyone else. She wondered how long it would be before Brendan could say, this is Stephen, my boyfriend. Or before she could say, oh yeah, that's Stephen, my ex-husband's boyfriend. She felt pretty sure she wasn't there yet. Not by a long chalk.

And then it was over. It looked like Lucas had started grizzling a bit, and Ste was carrying him across to the bench where the pushchair was parked, and Brendan was walking with him, the boys on each side, carrying their swords.

Ste looked slightly apologetic as he strapped Lucas back in. "Better get him home for a feed and a nap," he said.

"Sure," she said. And then roused herself to make more of an effort. "I can remember what that's like." She smiled at him. He hesitated for a second, then smiled back.

She watched as he straightened up and looked up into Brendan's face.

"See you later, then," he said, a bit self-consciously.

"Yeah," Brendan said, his voice low and soft, nodding.

She could tell that they wanted to kiss each other, but wouldn't in front of her and the boys. There was an awkward moment. And then Ste held out his hand to Leah.

"Come on then darlin'" he said to her, and she jumped off the bench. Eileen noticed how Brendan gave her head a quick stroke as she went past. A connection. An attachment.

"Say bye bye to Eileen," Ste said to her.

"Bye," she said, a bit shy again.

"Bye sweetheart," Eileen said, feeling choked again.

"Was nice to meet you, Eileen," Ste said, hesitating for a second.

She looked at him. Smiled. "You too," she said.

And she watched as he cast a last glance at Brendan, and turned away and pushed the kids back across the park in the direction he'd come from.

Brendan looked down at her. "All right?" he said. She wondered if he needed some reassurance. If he needed her blessing, somehow.

"Yeah," she said. "Absolutely. But let's move. I'm cold."

And she got up, and they headed back to the flat.

The rest of the day passed without incident. She wasn't sure if Brendan wanted to talk about it, or not, and she wasn't sure if she was ready to either, if she was honest. She went shopping with Cheryl, as they'd arranged, and Brendan took the boys to some 3D kids' film and they came back full of coke and popcorn and sporting huge dark glasses. Anyone might have taken them for a completely ordinary family. She wondered if maybe, extraordinary circumstances aside, they actually still were. When she put the boys to bed that night, she asked them if they'd had a good day. Paddy went on about the movie, and how high he'd climbed on the climbing frame. Declan told her he thought Dad's friend was all right. She gave him a kiss, flicked the lights out, and left them to their dreams.

They were due to fly back the following afternoon. Brendan came over early again, to spend as much time as possible with them. He seemed preoccupied, and just sat with them on the sofa watching TV, with his arms around them. She knew it was going to hurt him, saying goodbye to them. That it always did, and it always would. But he had made his choices. He had chosen to deny who he was for a very very long time. And now they all had to live with the consequences, hard as they were.

She packed their things up, but felt restless. As if she was leaving some business unfinished. She took advantage of Brendan and Cheryl looking after the boys to go out and get some air. She told them she was going to get a few things for the journey for the shop, and headed out.

In the village, on her way out of the shop, she almost bumped into someone. A guy with dark hair, and a very familiar accent. She nearly walked into his wheelchair.

"I'm sorry …" she started, and then stopped.

She knew who it was, straight away. It was Pete Hamill. Everyone round their way knew who Pete Hamill was, but she had never really met him properly. She knew that he and Brendan had been friends when they were young, scallies together, up to all sorts. But that they had been in a car accident together, and Pete had had terrible injuries. He had gone away for a while, to a specialist rehabilitation centre, and then come back when his parents had had the house adapted to the chair. But Brendan had stopped seeing him. She had always supposed it had been too painful. Everyone also knew that Pete had started volunteering with kids, got himself a degree, started teaching, got himself an MA, and taken off. She had heard he had moved to Chester, and that he and Brendan had made up. He clearly knew who she was too.

"Hey, you're Eileen Brady, right?" he asked her.

She smiled, polite. "That's right. And you're Pete?"

"I am," he said. "Brendan said you were coming over for a visit. Everything OK?"

"Sure," she said, evading slightly. "We're flying back this afternoon."

"That's tough," he said. "You'll have to come for longer next time."

"Maybe," she said.

He looked at her. Steady. "Did you meet Ste?"

She looked back, and met his gaze. She had got used to keeping a cool head over the years. "Yes," she said. "I met him, thanks."

He nodded. As if he understood her discomfort. "He's a good lad, Eileen. I hope you'll give him a chance. For Brendan's sake."

It was her turn to nod, now. She smiled. Then suddenly, she made a decision. "You don't know where he lives, do you?"

"What, Ste?" Pete asked.

"Yeah," she said. "I might just drop in."

"Sure," Pete said, taken aback. But he still directed her down the road towards an estate, and gave her a street number and name. She thanked him and walked off, wondering exactly what she thought she was doing.

When she found it, she let herself tentatively into the yard. From the outside, it looked terrible. There were kids' toys discarded in the front yard along with various bits of old junk. They obviously didn't have much money. Again, she found herself wondering what the hell Brendan was doing, slumming it with this incredibly ordinary lad, after everything they'd built up together in their ten years. She even almost changed her mind, but then took a deep breath and knocked, tentatively. She heard footsteps dragging, inside, and before she could change her mind, Ste opened the door. He looked surprised.

"Eileen," he said, his mouth staying slightly open.

It made her want to smile. It was nice to have the advantage back after yesterday. "Mind if I come in for a bit?" she asked. "I'm just getting some air before we head back to the airport."

"No," he said, standing back, but a bit unsure. "Come in."

He closed the door and led the way through into the living room.

"Sorry about the mess," he said. "I was just having a clear up while Amy's out with the kids." He seemed to be in the middle of picking up toys and putting them into boxes. He cleared a space for her on the sofa and she sat down, carefully, as he got back down on the floor on his knees and carried on.

She looked around. It was a mess, in some ways. And the décor was horrible. But there were dishes stacked neatly in the drainer, and washing draped equally neatly on the drying rack. It looked like they were just about in control of it. It was just a family home, really.

"This is …" she started to say, but was cut off by him giving her a sceptical look.

"It's OK," he said. "We know it's a bit of a dump, but Amy's a T.A., and I'm a barman. And Lee's just a student. It's the best we can do, round here. And we get by." He was chattering now. "Brendan gave us the money for a new power shower, so that was good …" he ground to a halt, realising what he'd said. He bit his lip.

She smiled. "That's nice," she said.

They looked at each other. She decided to try again.

"So," she said. "You and Brendan …"

He looked down at the floor, where he was still kneeling, and seemed to smile. His shoulders drooped a bit. She realised suddenly that he must have had a lot of conversations recently that started "So, you and Brendan …" She stopped. And suddenly, she felt some barriers come down. Honesty kicked in.

"This is … difficult," she said.

"Yeah," he said, looking thoughtful. "Doesn't have to be, though."

"Doesn't it?" she asked him.

He shook his head. "No. Amy was fine with it … in the end."

There was something a bit innocent about him, she realised. But knowing, at the same time. Young, and old. He seemed a bit less boyish today, now she really looked at him, a bit more worldly. She wondered if that was part of what had attracted Brendan, the mixture of innocence and experience. That, and his undeniably pretty face and slim body.

"Was she?" Eileen asked. Her voice sounded just a little bit dry. Well, she thought, Amy wasn't married to you for ten years, was she? And she didn't come home one day and find you up to your bollocks in her own nephew.

"Yeah," he carried on, completely unaware of her thoughts. And then he surprised her. "I'll never hurt him either, y'know, me."

She looked at him. His face was completely sincere. It had never actually occurred to her to worry about Brendan. To think that Brendan was taking a huge risk, opening himself up to this, trying a new relationship. And with a man. And that he might get hurt. That she might not be the only one who was hurting here.

"No?" she asked him.

He shook his head. "No … we're done with all that. We've been through … loads. And I know how much it hurts him being away from his kids. I understand that, with Leah and Lucas. I just wanna … y'know, lighten the load a bit."

She nodded. She felt sad. She looked at Ste's old-young face and wondered what it was that they'd been through together. But she was starting to see that Brendan and Ste were more alike than they seemed. That maybe, actually, they were a good match. That they had both been through the mill, and they answered something in each other. That Brendan had found the right person for him, right now. Or they had found each other, and it was something important. She searched for some words.

"Ste … you will …" she stopped.

He almost laughed again, under his breath. "Are you gonna ask me to look after him? Cos you wouldn't be the first."

She was taken aback now. "No? Who?"

He shrugged. "This guy Alan. Brendan took me to see him in Dublin."

She nodded. "Alan, that's right." She remembered Alan. An old friend of Brendan's. Had spent some time inside. She seemed to remember he had dropped in for a quick drink at their reception when he'd not been long out of prison. An attractive guy with brown eyes that were to die for. Tattoos on both arms, that were a little like Brendan's. And shortly after the wedding, he'd moved away and they had lost touch. Word on the street was, he was gay, and had come out when he got to Dublin and met someone. So, Brendan had been to see him, then, recently, and taken Ste. She really did have a feeling of Brendan starting to enter a slightly different world. One where maybe the word gay didn't mark the end of the line. But did mean something, said something about who he was. Or part of it, anyway.

Ste looked at her, and his face was suddenly quite serious. She was struck by how long his eyelashes were.

"I really love him," Ste said.

It was completely unprompted. For a moment, she was lost for words. It was a bit like having the wind taken out of her sails.

Finally, she nodded.

"It's not easy," she said.

"What isn't?" he asked her.

"Loving Brendan Brady."

Their eyes met. And there was some understanding there.

"Not easy to stop, either," he said.

"No," she said.

And they smiled.

"I'd better get off," she said, suddenly, and stood up, as he did the same.

"OK," he said. "I'm glad you came."

"Yeah," she said. "Me too."

They walked back out to the front door. There was an awkward moment, during which they weren't sure whether to shake hands, or not. In the end, she leant over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. His skin was soft, and he blushed.

"Good luck," she said.

"Yeah," he said, and laughed. "Thanks."

She nodded. "Right. I'll …" and she headed out the door.

"I'll see you again," he said, sounding hopeful, as he stood in the door.

"Yeah," she said, "I'm sure you will." She stopped for a second, and turned. "How are you fixed for babysitting on Thursday?"

He looked surprised, caught on the back foot again. She laughed, and wrinkled her nose. "No? Too bad."

She watched him smile, getting the joke, and she turned to walk away.

She knew he was watching her go, as she put her hands in her pockets and headed back up the road toward the village where her boys were waiting. All three of them. And she realised she was smiling. She had come to let go of it all. To move on. Ten years of marriage, in the bin. And instead, much to her surprise, she actually felt like she had got something back. Her family. An extended version, certainly, and slightly amended. But a family all the same.

She knew it was just the beginning. That it was just the start of them trying to get used to having each other in their lives. It was complicated, that was for sure. But for the first time in a long time, she could see a way forward. For all of them.

And she walked up the street with a spring in her step. And started to hum.


	9. Chapter 9

**Crossing Thresholds**

_Note: This is getting towards the end now, just one or two more parts, so I wanted to say a massive thankyou to anyone who's commented, and even if I haven't replied personally, it means a lot. My writing has got a bit slow now, cos this particular guy is a bugger to get right. ; )_

**Part 9: Brendan (1)**

Waking up was the strangest time. Having consciousness break over his brain, opening one eye, wary, and finding a body lying in the bed, close up against his own, the sensation of a head, lodged just under his chin, hair against his face, short and soft. Or sprawled on the other side of the bed, having moved away in the night. And not just any body. Stephen's body. Slender and kind of loose-limbed. And fucking desireable. Watching him, as he lay, breathing deep and a bit ragged, hair flopped over his forehead and the longest fucking eyelashes splayed against his cheeks. Reaching out for him and pulling him back in with one arm, and hearing him moan and kind of snuffle. And then throw an arm across him, abandoned. And carry on sleeping.

He had never let any of the others stay over. Hardly ever. He had let Vinnie stay over one weekend, and it had been fun, but it had led to massive trouble. Expectations. Declarations. Declarations that he had had to back away from, and fast, before it destroyed them both. And since then, never. The only person he had shared a bed with for any length of time was Eileen. He had quite liked Eileen's body, in some ways. It didn't really attract him, but it was slim, and boyish, and he'd got used to how she would lie next to him, her arm across him, as if she was asking to be looked after, and he liked that, he felt that was something he could do. She became familiar very quickly, the smell of her, and her hair, soft. He had liked it when she was pregnant, and she would toss and turn, but she would reach across and grab his hand and put it on her belly so he could feel the kick. Strange. It felt like they were building something together. But none of the others were ever there when morning came. He made sure of that.

So it was damn strange then, how he had let Stephen stay over almost straight away. He had taken him back to the flat when they were making up that first time, and the sex had been … amazing, really. It had almost taken his breath away, how Stephen just gave himself up, so completely, holding nothing back, and getting bold, and getting his reward. And then they had fallen asleep, their bodies relaxed, sated, and when he'd woken up, he'd suddenly felt an absence in the bed, and reached for him, and found he wasn't there. He had looked for him, feeling the loss. And there he was, standing beside the bed, pulling some clothes over that fucking desirable body that Brendan was so much enjoying coming to know, and he'd actually been relieved. Held out a hand to him, and brought him back to bed. And Stephen had practically jumped across his body, landing beside him with a thump, laughing, as if he belonged there. As if he had always been meant to be there. Uncanny. There was always something uncanny about Stephen, from the start. When he'd picked up that clock and told him it was only half two, just because he wanted to stay, Brendan had known he was lying. He was transparent. He chose to close his eyes, and to believe it, because it just suited him better that way. Stephen was just very difficult to send away.

It was hard to know the exact moment when it had become impossible. Impossible to beat, that feeling, impossible to defend himself against. Impossible to deny, wanting him there, wanting him. Loving him, he guessed, though it had been a long long time before he had been prepared to consider that as a reason. But maybe it had been that first damn night. And yet back then, he had thought he had it all under control. It had all gone so well, just the way he'd planned it. Manoeuvring him into position, opening him up, getting him in the mood, then taking it all away, watching him get jealous, and sealing the deal. Perfect. Except for Stephen getting a bit too bold too quickly. He'd hated that, having to bring him back into line so fast. Much harder, for some reason, than it had been with anyone else. There was just something about him. Something to do with the way Stephen looked at him, maybe. With the others, he had always been able to compartmentalize. Pull the shutters right down, afterwards, close off. That wasn't him, the sex. Or what came after it. It was just something that he did sometimes. But with Stephen, it was like he had jammed his fingers under the bloody shutter and it just wouldn't stay completely down. He kept on creeping back in underneath.

It had taken Brendan a while to realise it, though. That the control was slipping away from him. The fire had been a blip in his plans, unpredictable, and it had derailed him, for a while. Just at the moment when he'd been trying to give Amy a bit of a scare, get her to back off, some little guy who was more of a mouse than a man had practically burnt her and Ste's kids to a crisp. You couldn't make it up. And there had been Macca as well, and Ste had got suspicious, and crazy, thinking Brendan had done it. And even when the mouse had confessed, Ste had come to him and ended it. That was a kick in the gut. Nobody had ever even attempted to do that to him before. He normally had to shake them off. And here was Stephen, saying it was for the best, and going off with his girl. That had made him grip hard onto the crate of beer in front of him. Grit his teeth. He'd turned round and told him he didn't care. He told himself the same thing. It was almost convincing.

It wasn't as if he hadn't known he could get him back if he wanted to. He just bided his time, let Stephen know he was ready, showed him a bit of interest, softened him up, and picked his moment. And the lad had been a bit surprised, when he pushed him down onto the bed, but pliable enough, smiling up at him, knowing what he was going to get, and it seemed like everything was back on track. He had fucked him right there on the bed he shared with his girlfriend, and felt adrenalin surging round his body at the satisfaction of the conquest. But then things had got complicated. There had been this guy, hanging around Cheryl, someone who acted like he was queer, and who had dared to suggest Brendan was too, and he'd hit him, and Stephen had got the wrong end of it. He hadn't even hit the guy because he was queer, but because he wasn't, which was weird. But it didn't make any difference – there was still Stephen, his face shocked, walking out and running away from him. His feet had taken him, fast, after him. And there had been a kind of confrontation. It was hard to remember, but Stephen had looked shocked, and angry, and afraid, and confused, and brave. He had accused Brendan of being gay.

"I'm not gay," Brendan had said. It was ridiculous. That wasn't who he was.

"What am I, then?" Stephen had asked him, almost shouting. "What's this?" And it had seemed like he was going to kiss him, out there in the open where people could see. The violence that was always simmering inside him had come back to the surface, and he'd grabbed him, plastered a hand over his mouth, the one he'd been kissing only a couple of days earlier, soft and yielding and demanding. But Stephen had fought him off. "You're on your own," he'd said, crying, and walked away. Brendan remembered the sound of his own voice.

"Stephen … Ste … St …"

It was a new experience. Feeling like you wanted to reach out and hold someone with you, but not knowing how to do it. Because he'd tried manipulation, and he'd tried force, and neither of them damn well worked on this boy for long. Maybe Stephen was more of a man than he'd thought.

He'd done what he always did. Closed the door on what he'd felt, standing there watching him leave. And tried to talk him round. It had worked, up to a point. There he was, turning up at Brendan's door, and making an early Christmas present of himself, his mouth sweet again, and his hands in Brendan's hair, pulling him down to him, and it was all back on. And then Stephen had stopped it in its tracks. He'd accused Brendan of being ashamed of him. He had been completely taken aback. Stephen had made a demand. He wanted to go out with him. Out. On a date.

That might have been the moment he realised it had turned into a negotiation. Anyone else, he would have walked away. He would have laughed in their face. But for some reason, with Stephen, it seemed worth a try. Just to keep him quiet. It didn't mean anything.

He had let himself be taken to one of those places. One of those places where men go together, and it defines who they are. What they wear, how they behave. Queer, all of them. He had felt like unknown creatures were jumping all over his skin, pulling at the roots of his hair. They were sat there, these men, kissing each other, and it was ridiculous, it was nothing to do with him, and what he did with Stephen. And there was Stephen, opposite him, and he could tell he doubted him. That he was close to giving up.

_I'm here, aren't I?_ Brendan had said. And he didn't even know why he was, what had brought him there.

A relationship. Stephen kept on going on about a relationship. It was incomprehensible. They had a relationship. He was fond of him. They were friends. And they had sex together. There wasn't any more. There couldn't be. They were neither of them queer. Stephen had touched his hand, and it had been like an electric shock. He had given him excuses. Had stroked his hand back, briefly, for less than a second, and had got up. He had left without even telling him. And packed a bag and gone back to his wife and kids. He wasn't gay. Not queer, like those other guys. He couldn't have had kids if he was, could he? But strange how it was becoming almost as fucking painful not to be gay, not to be able to give Stephen what he wanted, as it was to even think about what life would be like if he was.

But that had been only the beginning. The learner slopes. Before he knew it, he was heading for the black run.

There had been Danny, and it had all started to slide. He had had to kill Danny, no question, because Danny had threatened Stephen, and had killed Vinnie. That had hurt. That had really hurt, that knowledge, all those years after the fact. It has seeped down into his soul, the knowledge that Vinnie had been murdered because he was queer, and because Danny had known they were together. And knowing the threat to Stephen was real. He hadn't exactly planned it, but he had had to kill him, in the end. Afterwards, he was haunted by it, constantly. Hands shook. He woke up in the night, in a sweat, seeing it, hearing it. But he knew if he had to, he would do the same thing over again in a heartbeat.

Because there was Stephen, getting into trouble again. With Warren this time. And he had had to protect him, sort it all out, and Stephen was curious, and grateful. And ready, again. The first time, Brendan sent him away. The second time, he didn't. They went to bed, for the first time in months, and it had been … mindblowing, actually. He rarely lost control, Brendan. But the feel of Stephen's body under his had made him almost insane with desire, and protectiveness, and he had just wanted to cover Stephen's body with his own and keep him safe forever. And it was rough, and passionate, but their mouths kept meeting, hungry, and it had felt like more than sex. It had felt like … lovemaking. He had felt those words were right on the tip of Stephen's delicious tongue, and he had kept silencing him, because he wasn't ready to hear that. Afterwards, he had confided in him. Just a little. Just enough. But then stopped. And asked for a kiss. He never asked for a kiss. He never needed to. But he did right then, and Stephen gave it, and it was good.

And the next day, he'd had to give him up. His girlfriend was having a baby. Unexpected. And there was his ex, asking Brendan if he loved Stephen. And he didn't know the answer, because it wasn't possible for him to love another man like that. And how could it be love, anyway, when it came with a need to hurt someone, to control them, and to keep them safe at the same time. It was completely fucked up.

It was one of the hardest things he'd done. He told Stephen he'd been using him, and Stephen had tried to put his arms around his neck, and he had had to force him off, pushing him hard against the wall. Told him to stay with Rae. And then those words had come, the ones he knew were coming, the ones he'd been dreading, but they still caught him right in the chest.

I love _you_.

And he had tried to shut him up. But Stephen kissed him. And he had tried to break away, but he hadn't been able to. He knew he shouldn't, but he gave in to one last kiss. _This is how I feel about you_, that kiss said. For a few seconds, he was lost to it. Then it ended, and he said goodbye, and pushed him away. Fuck, that had ripped through him. He had had to look, hard, up at the ceiling, his breathing constricted, and try not to think that Stephen was probably still on the other side of that wall, ready to give him everything, and that he couldn't let himself take it, because he would never really be able to keep him safe, and that was all that mattered, in the end.

It had taken a lot to keep Stephen away. He'd been hard with him, made him think he didn't care, and it seemed like the only thing that blotted out the pain of that these days was to drink. He always had a drink in his hand, something which dulled his senses. Not enough to lose control. Just enough to keep it.

But Stephen had seen through it. He'd realised that when Brendan was supporting Rae over the baby, it was really all about him. And he'd come back, saying they were the same, that they wanted the same thing, each other. He had tried to deny him. But his hand had gone out to hold him of its own accord. And then he had been kissing him again, everything he had sworn to himself he wouldn't do again, and it was like a dam bursting. Stephen just tasted so fucking good, and once he'd started, there was no stopping. There was just something about it, fucking someone when you knew that they loved you, completely, that they wanted to give you everything. It was a fucking turn on. It was addictive. Their clothes had been pulled off, fast, hitting the floor, and he took him, hard, up against the wall, enjoying the sound of his cries, and the clutch of his legs round Brendan's waist. And even after that, when he'd spent himself inside him, and Stephen had come all over his belly, and they had started to unclutch, and clean up, and dress, he hadn't been able to close down again. Stephen had come to him, and kissed him, and told him not to go, and he shouldn't, he really knew he shouldn't, but he had given in again, and kissed him, feeling Stephen's hands on his jaw, pulling him back in, needing him, wanting him, and he would have swept the desk with an arm and had him right there, he would. There was no stopping it.

Until Stephen's girlfriend had walked in.

That was when it had started to go west, really. He hadn't seen it coming at all. He thought it changed nothing. That it would all blow over, if they just kept their heads down. But Rae had put pressure on Stephen to come clean – he'd found himself in the middle of a row with Stephen about it, without even knowing where it had blown up from. He had gone round to get her to back off and shut up, and she just wouldn't play ball, and he'd lost his temper. She had gone into miscarriage, and lost the baby. It had hurt more than he could say, watching Stephen put his arms round her, and grieve for the baby they'd lost. And seeing himself, years ago, as if from the outside.

And there were the others as well. Suddenly, it seemed like everyone wanted a piece of him. Mitzeee, practically blackmailing him. Warren, digging around all the time. The man was a born fucking digger. And then finally, from nowhere, there was some other guy on the scene, sniffing around Stephen. One of these guys who just was queer, and didn't seem to care. He really hadn't seen it coming, and he felt jealousy licking away at his gut. And Stephen had seen his jealousy, and come back, upset, confused, throwing down ultimatums, saying that if they were going to be together, they had to do it his way, and go away. It was insane. He wanted to go to Brighton, or some such fucking place. He'd told him he would think about it, just to buy some time. But it was starting to unravel. When he closed his eyes, his head was full of thoughts of Vinnie, dead, and Danny, dying under his hands, and children, lost or a long way off, and Mitzeee, and Warren, and Stephen, demanding a life with him, offering him a life, or Stephen with someone else, being touched by him, touching him, liking it. Coming out, slipping away.

And then Peter had turned up.

Fucking Peter. He had closed off all thoughts about him. It was done with, dead. But then there he was, his familiar voice, his eyes throwing out a challenge. His chair. And it all came back.

Peter. The one he had burned for, back when they were eighteen, barely understanding it. Month after month of it, him and Pete, best mates. They were a double act, sidekicks, wingmen. Pete was the one he got up to all sorts with, skipping school, running from the plods, vaulting over walls, out of breath, laughing. The one he went out on the pull for girls with, though he was never that bothered if he did, it was the craic with Pete that mattered. The one who winked at him, grinned, joked, touched his shoulder, put an arm around him. The one who had laughed and suggested the camping trip, and a window had opened in Brendan's head that scared him. When they got there, his body had felt like it was surging with electricity, the whole time. He had tried, so fucking hard, not to feel it. But it was undeniable. They had had quite a bit to drink, laughing, and then got into the tent. And Pete had still been laughing, lying there, but Brendan had stopped, and had unzipped Pete's sleeping bag again, slowly, his hand shaking. And he got in there with him, Pete taking a while to realise what was happening. And everything after that had been unclear. Pete yelling, pushing him off, shocked. _What're ye doing Bren? Fuck! Fuck!_ A tussle. Brendan retreating fast, his stomach churning, his head spinning, just wanting to escape. Standing over the remains of the fire, wanting to put his hand right into the middle, where it was bright red, wanting to burn. Grabbing the bottle of whiskey and downing as much as his could handle with one swallow, coughing. Pete again, wanting to know what the fuck was going on, his voice quieter though, hesitant, _Brendan … are you … are you gay, mate?_ Shaking his head, taking another swallow, _No way, what the fuck? _Striding off towards the car, still drinking, just wanting to get out of there. Chucking the empty bottle into the undergrowth before he got in, watching the arc of it, amused. Hearing it land with a thwack. Pete, following, _Brendan … Bren … what the fuck's going on?_ And his own voice, _Going for a drive _… laughing, getting in, turning the ignition, revving up. Pete getting in at the last minute. Pete trying to talk to him as he drove, but he couldn't make out the words. Depressing the accelerator, feeling the hatred of himself run through his body, the humiliation. The darkness. Pete's voice. Being dazzled by oncoming lights, and turning the wheel slightly towards them. _I want it to be finished. I just want it finished._ Pete, shouting, and grabbing the wheel, and a horn, blaring, and then an impact, and more darkness.

It hadn't been the end, although in some ways it was. It had been the end for that friendship. Pete had ended up in a chair. Gone away for a long time, to rehabilitate. Brendan had avoided contact. Everyone wanted to know what had caused the accident. His Dad. His Dad had yelled at him for his stupidity. Shaken him. Slapped him into next Tuesday and thrown him across the room. He didn't care. He deserved to be shaken, slapped, thrown. He had been drunk. That's what he told them. He had got pissed, and gone for a ride. Pete should never have been there. He had lived in fear that Pete would tell, but as the months went by, there was only silence. He had locked it away. It never happened. Only the drinking and the accident. He had been stupid, and they had both paid for it, but Pete much more than him. He knew he could never look him in the eye again.

And then suddenly, there he was, over ten years later, and it all came back to the surface, what he thought he'd buried for good. Pete. Knowledge in his face. Dropping hints. Shaking Stephen's hand. And there Stephen was, getting pissy and jealous, and demanding again. Stephen had followed him into the bathroom. _Is he after you?_ Stephen had asked him. _Does he want you back? _

_He never fucking wanted me_, had flashed through Brendan's head, in a nanosecond. _I never fucking wanted any of this. Pete, and Vinnie, and Macca, and the others, and Eileen, and Danny, and Warren, and Rae, and Mitzeee. And you. I never fucking wanted you. I never wanted to want you like I do._

There had been a red flash somewhere behind his eyes. And he'd put out his fist, fast. And punched Stephen. And again, for good measure. He'd collapsed to the floor.

The blood had been a shock. He hadn't totally expected that, how red it was, on Stephen's mouth. And Stephen's anger. He'd always been scared, before. But now he was angry. He said some words, and walked away. Red. For a moment, everything seemed to have gone red. The blood, and the rage. And something else, as well. Wanting something. Feeling something. Something he couldn't understand, didn't have a word for.

Funnily enough, it wasn't Pete who did for him, in the end. It was fucking Danny. Fucking Danny's rotten bloated fucking corpse, resurfacing. Dragged up, of all people, by Stephen. He had tried to pin it on Warren, and Warren had got back at him by doing a bit more of that fucking digging he was so keen on, and testing him out, and then by telling Stephen what he'd done.

Stephen had come to face him, terrified. And when Brendan had realised what had put that fear into Stephen, some of that terror had seeped into him as well. It was too late to deny it. Danny's death lay in between them. It was the one thing he couldn't get past to get to Stephen, even though he'd done it for him.

Stephen had left, shrinking away from him. And he had almost begged him to stay.

_Please … I need you to be with me …_

He had never needed anyone before. Never asked anyone to stay with him. Never had someone push past him, in fear and disgust, and walk away. He had felt like he wanted to kill again. Had tried taking it out on that fucker Warren Fox. And it had helped, up to a point. But he had realised it was useless. And then Stephen had come to him and attacked him. It was a bolt from the blue. He had lain in hospital and heard how much Stephen hated him, how he felt nothing for him now, and wondered what the fuck he had done, and what he had turned Stephen into, and if this was some kind of punishment for Danny, and for all the bad things he'd done in his miserable life.

He put himself back together, by sheer force of will. He always did. He wore his wounds well hidden. There was any amount of hurt, he'd found in his life, that you could carry as long as your suit and shoes were right, and you looked on top of the world.

Ironically, it was Peter who'd tried to get him to stay. Tried to get him to face up to what was going on inside. He'd thought Pete had come to destroy him, and maybe he had, but when push came to shove, Peter seemed to be able to look past the suit, and the tache, and the posturing. Always had been able to. He had almost believed Pete, that he should give it one last go. But then Brendan had seen Stephen with the other guy. The queer one. Together. No mistaking that. A surprise though, that it had happened so fast. He had left town for a while. Paid his kids a visit. Met up with a few contacts. Tried to close a door in his head. Somewhere in his chest. Tried to.

By the time he got back, they had progressed to kissing in the street, his Stephen and this other guy. All very lovey dovey. Strange how he felt no temptation to rip this other guy's head off his shoulder's then. He seemed completely insignificant. Brendan had never really considered him. And when he looked at Stephen's face, as he asked if he'd missed him, he knew he didn't need to.

He had kept his distance for a while, played it cool, let them drift. He knew exactly when Stephen was on the other side of the village, looking up at the club, or walking past the yard on the other side of the street. He was intensely aware of him, and that he was looking, and trying not to look. Brendan had bided his time. He had had things of his own to sort out, before he dealt with Stephen's problems. Once or twice, their eyes had met, and he'd felt an irresistible twitch. It would have been so easy, to walk over there and take him. He wanted to do it, ached to do it. And the expression on Stephen's face suggested he was ripe for it. Almost as if he was expecting it. Open, vulnerable, and suspicious at the same time. If he'd wanted to, he could have led him on, kissed him, and then thrown him off again. Punished him, for leaving him, for the attack, for daring to give himself to somebody else. That was what he might have done, once.

Brendan had turned away, and gone back up the steps to the club entrance. Knowing someone was vulnerable, and using it, were two different things, he was discovering. There was a choice.

It occurred to him, sinking gradually into his consciousness, that neither Warren nor Pete gave a damn who he slept with. Warren never mentioned it. As long as the money was rolling in, he didn't give a toss about anything else. They were partners, and after a few initial local difficulties, it worked. Mitzeee couldn't care less either. She still needed a manager, she said, jabbing her finger into his chest, and he was the man for the job. He was still Brendan Brady, partner, and manager. That hadn't changed. And Pete was … Pete was there. He turned up one night after hours, and they had got very drunk together. They had sorted a lot out. What had happened on the trip. What had happened in the car. He never told Pete about wanting it to be finished, though Pete had fixed him with dark eyes, and there had been a momentary silence in the talking. And they had talked about what had happened afterwards. Brendan never visiting, cutting off contact. Pete's bitterness, and anger. Rebuilding his life. Brendan heading off away from him in a different direction, starting a family. The kids that Peter had wanted. Still wanted. Still intended to have.

It became a regular thing, to drink with Peter. They stopped talking about trouble, and started talking about when they were sixteen, seventeen, and the things they'd done, and Cheryl and Lynsey had done, and Mal and Francis. Like when Mal had been trying to find out Cheryl's bra size by looking up her top, and they had had to give him a bit of a pounding, only to find that Francis had nicked one from her drawer when he'd called round, and had taken his jacket off to reveal he was wearing it over his T shirt, and had struck a Madonna pose. Brendan hadn't known what the fuck to make of that, but Pete had laughed his head off, and Mal's excruciating embarrassment was clearly punishment enough. Francis had insisted on wearing it to the chippie.

Brendan and Pete had shaken their heads, wondering where it had gone, and starting to feel a little bit old for the first time. And then had another drink, and started laughing about it again.

But occasionally, through the semi-drunken haze, Pete would touch on something more serious. About choices they'd made, or not made. Things they had wanted to do, and not done. Or not do, and done anyway, or had to do, because there hadn't seemed any choice at the time. About skipping school, bored, wanting to earn hard cash. About regretting it later, watching stupider kids than them, getting on. About temptations. Obligations. Commitments. About how Brendan had felt when he married Eileen. It was less of a conversation, really, than a series of thoughts, and responding grunts, and looks, that built a bridge between them. Pete had talked about the moment he had realised, in the hospital, that he wouldn't let the chair define him. That he refused to let his life be mapped out for him by an accident of fate, that that was not who he was. Or by what people thought about him, assumptions. That it had made him think about how he'd fallen into the crime, and the scallying, just because that was what lads round their way did. He had come out changed. Started volunteering with kids who were at risk, little gangsters in the making, surly teenagers who were all effing this and effing that and suddenly found they were out-effed. He was good at it. He studied, in the evenings. Went to Uni. Changed his life. No one could stop you, if you wanted to do it, he said. You couldn't let other people hold you back. Brendan listened. Drank, nodded.

It was Peter who'd raised the subject of Stephen. He'd tried to avoid the subject.

"You don't have to deny yourself what you need to be happy," Peter had said. He knew for a fact that Pete had set his sights on Mitzeee, and he pitied him, though he seemed to be going in with his eyes wide open. He said he thought she was a cracker, and Brendan had rolled his eyes, and told him he didn't know the half of it.

Brendan had just shaken his head. The whiskey had made his tongue numb. Or something had. Happy. What was that? It was a temporary condition. He had felt it when the boys had been born. When they were growing up, healthy and well. When they made their first ride on a bike without stabilisers. When they won at the football. That was pretty much it. Except … a couple of other times. With Stephen, his body underneath him, and Stephen's hands in his hair, and a laugh in the back of Stephen's throat that gave way to a moan as his head went back as Brendan pushed inside him, and Stephen turned his head aside into the pillow, a half smile on his face, and Brendan had put his mouth against Stephen's jawline, and felt the light hair that was there against his lips, as Stephen's legs had wrapped around his back, and there was only that, the fucking tightness, and the softness and the hands, and the half smile, and the moan, and the deep connection that was like a release, and the laugh in the back of his throat. That had been pretty damn close.

He had become aware that Pete had been watching him, as he looked at the whiskey swilling round in the glass.

"Have you seen Frank recently?" Pete had asked, suddenly, as if out of the blue.

Brendan had experienced the same sensation he often did when his Dad's name was raised. Nothing. Maybe something, deep down, dulled, but wrapped in a whole heap of nothing. He had shrugged.

"Don't get over there much," he'd said. "He's in a care home … his chest's fucked, basically."

"I heard," Pete had said. He had taken a swig. "He brought it on himself, Brendan."

It seemed harsh. But he'd just nodded, and drunk.

There had been a pause.

"Talk to him," Pete had said.

"What, Frank?" Brendan had asked him, slightly incredulous. It seemed random. And he wasn't going to do it, anyway.

"No," Peter had said. "Stephen."

He had wanted to dismiss it. They were done with each other, surely. He was tired of it. Exhausted with it. If they went round this again, Stephen would break, or he would, and there would be nothing but wreckage.

"Maybe," he'd said, nodding.

Maybe.


	10. Chapter 10

**Crossing Thresholds**

_Note: Haven't been around for ever so long. Am going to have a go at finishing this, so here goes with the next part._

**Part 10: Brendan (2)**

It had been difficult to know how to start. He wasn't even sure what he wanted to get out of it, if it wasn't just sex. Good sex, obviously, great sex, amazing sex, the kind of sex that completely satisfied you and left you craving for more at the same time, muscles twitching and relaxing against each other, skin hot, slippery, sweat cooling, spunk sour, someone's mouth looking for yours, lips fallen apart so you could see their teeth in a smile. But they were way beyond that now, had been for a long while. It was more just a thought of him and Stephen, and what they had been to each other, how he had felt when Stephen was there, looking at him, talking, cracking jokes, listening. A kind of fitting together. A connection. He kept parking it at the back of his brain, on hold. But at the same time, he knew that the longer he left it, the more likely it was that the connection would break, the one that made something buzz inside his brain when he knew Stephen was across the street, the one that received the signal from him, knowing he was thinking about it as well. The one that made him cock his head and listen out for the way Stephen walked, light but dragging his feet sometimes, scuffing them along the ground.

In the end, it just happened. The moment chose itself. He saw Stephen standing outside that stupid spa where he worked now, talking with the other guy, the one he was with, young black guy. Stephen was frowning into his phone, distracted, talking, something to do with having to collect the kids. And the other guy had thrown up his hands, said something about he thought they were spending the evening together, and Stephen was trying to explain, but grumpy. Then the other guy waltzed back inside, leaving Ste gazing at his phone. He looked miserable, Brendan thought, with what was almost a twitch of pleasure. It was written all over the slump of his shoulders. He could have walked past, left him to it. But at the same time, there was something about those shoulders, those downcast eyes. The mouth, pouting. It occurred to him that actually, to point his feet in a slightly different direction was not the end of the world. He could still be him and walk over there, and speak to him. He stopped. Changed direction. And walked across, hands in pockets.

"Trouble in paradise?" he had said to Stephen, leaning in a bit. He was surprised, actually, at how calm he felt. At how easy it was, to stand beside him again, and see Stephen's face tip up towards him, the eyelashes that always blew him away, so pretty, and his sulky mouth. His fear seemed to have faded, in the time Brendan had left him to himself. His chin jutted out, defiant.

"No," Stephen had said. "Everything's great. Thanks."

"Looks like it," Brendan had said, trying to stop his mouth twitching.

Stephen had pulled a face, and laid on the sarcasm. "We don't fight, if that's what you mean. Funny that. How not everything has to end up with a slapping."

Brendan had winced, just a little. And then looked at him, into his eyes. Lowered his voice. "Not everything's worth fighting about," he said.

Stephen had paused and looked back, almost as if it was against his will. He laughed, short, dry. "What do you want, Brendan?"

Brendan shifted his weight. "Can we talk?" He looked around, hardly able to meet Stephen's gaze, which was becoming incredulous.

"What about?" Stephen asked him. "You being in the closet, or me being out of it?"

"I'm not …" Brendan started. Then stopped.

He looked away. Really, Stephen's anger about all this was irrelevant. It would just take him time to work it out. He looked back, and saw something else in Stephen's face, waiting for a response. Rapt attention.

"I'm not the person you think I am," Brendan said, levelly.

"I'm not interested," Stephen said, but not in any way which suggested he'd taken any time to think it through.

Brendan shrugged. He found himself surprisingly unconcerned. This was just part of the dance Stephen always insisted on.

"All right," he said. And turned and walked away. And he knew, without looking, that Stephen was watching him go.

He left it another week or so. He was damned if he was going to beg. He was pretty certain Stephen wouldn't have come to him if he had, though he would have enjoyed being asked. But it sometimes seemed like fate was determined to throw Stephen into his path. But then, it was a small place. Hard to stay apart when everything is sending you back into each other's orbit. He was on his way into the shop, when he almost bumped into Stephen coming out, on his own this time thank Christ, a bag of shopping in one hand and talking into his phone in the other. He looked harassed as he rang off.

Brendan paused. "Everything OK?" he asked, quietly, levelly, as they had always spoken to each other in public, as if the intimacy was still there between them, enclosing them in a slightly separate space. As it was. That's what he felt, anyway.

"Lucas is ill," Stephen said, too distracted to resist a conversation. "I've just been to get some stuff for Amy."

"Sorry," Brendan started to say. "Is there anything …" It was hard not to want to do something, the concern in Stephen's face was so obvious.

"It's not serious," Stephen had interrupted. "Just a chesty thing … you know."

"Yeah," Brendan said, hesitating. "Padraig had that a lot."

Stephen nodded. There was a moment's hesitation, as Stephen seemed to want to move, but didn't. He looked up at him instead. There was a strange appeal in the look. Maybe it was unconscious, maybe it wasn't. Brendan said nothing, and Stephen broke eye contact, and made as if to move. He found himself speaking again, almost without willing it.

"Are you ready to talk yet?" he asked him.

Stephen stopped dead, half turned away. But didn't run off. He looked back over a shoulder. "What have we got to talk about?"

Brendan shrugged. "Anything you want. These conversation things normally have two sides. So they tell me."

Stephen's eyes showed some confusion. He seemed torn. But he shook his head. "Bit late for that now," he said. And started to move off again.

"I won't ask again," Brendan said, his voice low.

Stephen stopped again, and looked round.

He hadn't intended to throw down an ultimatum. Hadn't planned it, anyway. But someone had to take control of the situation, and as usual, it had to be him.

Stephen still held his gaze. There was something sad in it. "OK," he said, eventually, and walked away.

OK. What did that mean, exactly? OK, he would, or OK, he wouldn't? Brendan narrowed his eyes, watching him go. Feeling that something was shifting, in the balance, delicate. That if he reached out to try to make it go his way, it would all fall down. If he was gonna come, he had to come of his own accord. He carried on into the shop, absently, trying to remember what he'd come for. Damn Stephen. It was like he had a spell on him, even now. Those eyes. He tried hard to put the thought of them out of his mind. It did no good.

He had known, of course, that Stephen would come to him eventually. He always knew that if he let him come, he'd come, and he would let him in, and they would be face to face again. Whatever it was that connected Stephen to some inconvenient place in his ribcage, slightly left of centre, seemed to be unbreakable - though god knows they had tried to break it, and each other, in various ways, most of which he knew he was responsible for. So, he knew Stephen would come. What he didn't know was whether he actually wanted it to happen, willed it. Because if Stephen came, he had a choice. He could choose the old faithful routine - seduce, control, hurt … and lose. The jokes, the touching, all the techniques that never failed him, but in the end only led him round in pointless and ever-decreasing circles, the road to nowhere. Or he could try something different. He didn't even know what. What did people do? Talked, he supposed. Explained, whatever that meant. Found some words, for why he hated him as much as he cared for him, why the need to possess him seemed to blank out any ability to let Stephen choose freely whether he stayed, or went, why he was driven to pull Stephen back to him again and again, but repelled, disgusted, when Stephen offered him something more constant. Something in the world, that demanded something from him. That redefined him.

So when he opened the door of the flat and found Stephen there, looking partly brave, but partly as if even he thought he was mad to be there, his heart had stilled inside his chest. It was do or die time. He resisted every impulse to tease, to seduce, to belittle. He led Stephen into the flat. Sat down. Coughed, awkward. Asked him if he wanted coffee. Stephen had just shaken his head. Had stayed on his feet.

"You wanted to talk," he said. "So talk."

Brendan had rubbed his hands together, to steady himself. Looked up at Stephen. His face wasn't defiant, the way it sometimes had been in the past, when he'd been angry and had tried to stand up for himself. It was mainly just sad. It struck Brendan that the last year had aged Stephen. That he wasn't the boy he'd first met, the cheeky fuck. He was more of a man, someone who had been around the block and not much liked what he'd seen. His face, older, his body, filled out, more solid. And he missed that boy, the one who lied and scammed and stuck his chin out and had arms like twigs and a ribcage you could play a tune on with your fingers. But he knew he was the one who was responsible for turning him into someone else, someone tougher.

"What do you want to know, Stephen?" he said, knowing they were on the brink of something, already fighting exasperation, the urge to be cutting, to push him away.

Stephen had looked miserable, but determined. "Why are you like this, Brendan?" he asked, finally. "Cos I don't even think I know who you are."

It was a damn good question, to start, he would give him that. A bullseye, a bullet in the heart. He never revealed himself, never. It was weakness, to let someone else see your hand. You could only win by playing your hand close to your chest, keeping up your bluff, your poker face. Even if he wanted to, and he didn't, he wasn't sure he could answer that question.

"Stephen …" he started, as if to refuse the question.

Stephen had given a dry laugh, one that came out of despair.

"That's it then, is it?" he said. "You said talk. But if that's it, I'm done." And he had started to turn, and leave. Same old Stephen. Stroppy, impatient. Emotional. Disappointed. Angry. Beautiful.

"Stephen …" he had said, again. And Stephen had stopped, and hesitated, for a moment. Looked back over his shoulder. And he had made himself look at Stephen's eyes, blue-green, suspicious, holding him at bay, and his mouth, which told a different story, that he wanted to be kissed. And some words had started to come.

"You don't always get to choose who you are," he'd said. He felt like every word was costing him. His jaw was set. But Stephen had turned around, and taken some steps closer, and started to listen.

"What do you mean?" he'd said.

Brendan forced himself to go on, fighting against every instinct to walk out himself, or say something which would make Stephen walk out. Either of which would be so much easier than this.

"A man like me …" he started, groping his way, "there are … pressures. Expectations."

"Expectations," Stephen had repeated, as if he was trying to understand. "What kind? Who from?"

He avoided the last bit. Tried to answer the first, instead. He had to give him something.

"Sometimes …" his brain felt as if it were breaking, reforming memories he didn't want to think about, but had to, "… somebody has to take control. Sort things. You have to man up, quick." He looked up at Stephen, now. "D'you understand?"

Stephen looked like he was trying. "I had to do that," he said, "when Amy was sick and I nearly lost the kids. Doesn't mean you can't be yourself now."

Brendan felt a sense of frustration. Why couldn't Stephen understand? This _was_ him now, all of it. The person he'd wanted to be, and the person he was. The prisoner, and the prison. It had been going on so long, he couldn't just shed one now. They were both him. He was his own jailer. He had learnt to live with it. Or he thought he had. He took another deep breath, controlled.

"It's not that easy," he said. He knew he sounded hard. "There are … commitments. Work, money. Family." He hesitated around the word. Took another breath. "Eileen got pregnant. People needed … protecting. You do what you do." He looked up at Stephen, direct. "We don't all get to fly planes. We're not kids. You get into something, and then … that's you. That's who you are."

Stephen was looking at him. He shook his head. "It doesn't have to be," he said. "I know …" for a moment, it looked like he was going to take a step closer, but he stopped himself, rubbed his hands together, as if to prevent himself from reaching out. "You could have something different."

Brendan cleared his throat, looked down, away from Stephen's eyes. "I am who I am."

"I changed my life," Stephen said. There was emotion in his voice. Brendan found himself praying silently that this wouldn't get messy. He hated it when the control started to slip and slide.

"Sometimes," Brendan said again, looking at Stephen, hard, "there is no way out. Just … walls." He stopped. There was silence.

And now, Stephen did step forward. Nervous. His voice shaking a bit. "But … you _want_ something different now, though."

Brendan looked at him. Fuck. So beautiful. His face, all sad and hopeful. His eyelashes. His body, just aching to be made love to. He felt as if he were cracking. He set his jaw. Looked Stephen in the eye. His hands rubbed together.

"I hate what I want," he said.

"Why?" Stephen asked him, uncomprehending.

Brendan looked at him again. "Because I can't have it." The moment the words were out of his mouth, he realised some of his internal control was going. His throat tightened. F*ck the world, for making him like this. F*ck god. "I see it," he said, looking at Stephen's face, "and I can't have it."

"Who says you can't have it?" Stephen seemed lost.

Brendan didn't want to go there. The voice inside his head. He shook his head, flinching.

"Do you hate me, then?" Stephen asked him. He looked like he might cry.

Brendan shook his head. "No." Then realised he was lying. He looked at him. He knew it would sound cruel. "Sometimes, yeah."

Stephen looked appalled. "You hate everything and everyone, don't you?" he said.

Brendan nodded, slowly, thoughtful. "Almost." He paused. "Except my kids. Cheryl." He looked up at Stephen's expectant face. _You._ He sent him a message, with his eyes. You, when I don't hate you and what you do to me. He couldn't get his mouth to speak the words. He wasn't sure if Stephen had received the message.

"Including yourself?" Stephen carried on.

Brendan stared, hard, at the coffee table in front of him. He nodded, slowly. Almost laughed, dry. This whole thing. Ridiculous.

"So much that you killed someone," Stephen said. Brendan's chest tightened. It had to come back to that, always. He had taken a life, and it seemed to have lost him everything. His sense of who he was. His grip on life. His grip on Stephen. All of it.

"I had to do that," he said, his voice low. "I did that for you."

Immediately, he knew it was a mistake, though it was true, and it had to be said. Stephen stiffened, shifted back a step.

"I don't wanna hear that again," he said. "It's not, it's not fair, I … never asked you to … I never asked you to do that …"

Brendan had realised he was freaking again. That he was going to lose him again. He stood up, and moved towards him. "I had to," he said, "he was gonna …"

"No, he wouldn't."

"He would. He would. He did, and he has. I told you."

"I don't … I never asked for any of this … I never asked you to protect me, I was fine before …"

Brendan moved towards him, closer, and saw Stephen put his hands up as a barrier against him.

Brendan reached out for his wrists, and wrapped his fingers around them, almost on instinct. For a moment, Stephen didn't resist, he just looked, afraid. Then he started to try to shake himself free. Brendan tightened his grip. He felt something click, in his head. Was this always the way it was going to be? Was he always going to end up hurting him, no matter what he started out intending to do?

"No … get off me," Stephen said.

"I have to look after you Stephen …" he tried to get Stephen to look at him again, but he didn't seem to want to.

"Why? It was you that hurt me, nobody else!" He was shouting now, angry, struggling. Like something trapped.

Brendan held him, trying to still him, but he slightly loosened his grip. He knew, suddenly, what Stephen needed to hear. And he knew what he needed to say.

"Look at me," Brendan shook Stephen's wrists, but gently. "Look at me … I will never hurt you again. And I will never let anyone hurt you again. Ever. Do you understand?"

Stephen seemed to look at him, incredulous. He shook his wrists free.

"What?"

Brendan looked into his face. His heart was thumping. "No one will touch a hair on your head again. I promise."

There was a moment, when Stephen just looked, his eyes moving over Brendan's face. As if he wanted to believe it. Brendan lifted his hand, tentatively, and stroked some of Stephen's hair behind his ear. He was so … vulnerable. So open. How could he leave himself so open, Brendan wondered. After everything. And then the shutters had come down.

"You don't get to decide that," Stephen said to him, almost spitting it. And he had backed away, fast, and left, slamming the door.

Brendan was left standing, his hand still half raised.

And now, for the first time since they'd met, Brendan hadn't been sure that he would come back. Or what he would do, if he didn't. He sank down onto a chair, rubbed his hands over his face, frustrated. In the past, he had gone after him, seduced, cajoled, teased, stirred it up. This time, there was nothing he could do. It was a strange feeling. If he went after him, it would only push him away. It was Stephen's decision. He had tried to tell him how it was, even if it wasn't what Stephen wanted to hear. It was up to him to decide if he could live with that.

It had taken a day. He had moved around, trying to do his usual things. He worked. He phoned his kids. Cheryl was away with Lynsey, and he felt a need to talk to someone who still recognised him as human. He was avoiding Peter, because Pete would ask him about Stephen, and that was between the two of them right now. When he knew the outcome, he would tell Pete whether the subject of Stephen needed to be buried forever. By late afternoon, he was tired. Tired of keeping up a front to the world. He sat in the flat, his feet up, drinking a whiskey, soft and peaty in his mouth, taking the edge off his frustration, as it always did. And he waited.

There was a knock at the door. He got up. It was Stephen, again. He looked emotional but it was hard to read. He invited him in. They stood opposite each other, without words. Stephen looked uncertain, like he was looking for reassurance. And then he stepped up close, leaned up, and gave Brendan a soft kiss on the mouth. He heard a sound come out of his own mouth that was like the noise the ground gives when you're at the end of a long drought, and the clouds rumble up, black, and it finally throws it down with rain, battering the ground. He savoured it, the softness, and the fact that it was given willingly. When he pulled back, Stephen's face was still very close to his own. He felt his breath catch. And then he kissed him back, feeling that mouth belonging to him. His arms gripped Stephen's back, his shoulders. He felt Stephen's arms go around his neck as they kissed, and then somehow he was lifting him, and he felt Stephen's legs clutch around his waist. He carried him straight to the bedroom, put him down on the bed, undressed him, and made love to him.

He supposed that was what this was, this uncovering, enjoying every inch of skin that was revealed to him, the trails of hair, the sensitive places that he knew made Stephen moan and his feet curl, this entangling of bodies, this rolling, and cradling, and touching, skin rubbing against skin, creating friction, and desire, and Stephen's mouth, everywhere, wrapped around him, and then pulling him up by the hair, and pushing him down onto his back, and taking him, slowly, his cock, pushing inside, pulsing, and his mind blank, Stephen's pelvis lifting up towards him to pull him deeper in, and the cry that came out of his mouth when he started to rock into him, and then move, harder, feeling Stephen relax and flex around him, his back arching. Stephen had always been more to him than a series of tricks and techniques, though god knows he'd been a quick study, eager to please. But now, he wanted it to last, and it wasn't just because he wanted to prolong the physical pleasure. It was because … it felt like it might mean something. Something that lasted longer than it took to bring them both to orgasm. Something that might still exist once they were outside this bedroom. He wasn't sure what. But something.

Stephen's breathing was becoming heavy now, panting, his face flushed. His hands went behind his head, clutching the bedrails to brace his body against the pressure coming from Brendan's movement. Brendan looked at his face, tasted his mouth, felt the tongue slide inside his own. He had wondered if Stephen might talk about love – that strange thing, that he found difficult to understand, that had always been linked to pain in his head. He didn't. He just moaned, lightly, and said his name, and let it all happen, the way he always did, with complete abandonment, like there was nothing else in the world but the two of them. It was a relief. This – this was his escape. It was always good, when there was only the two of them. It had always been all right, when it was just him, and Stephen. It was everything else that was the problem.

He knew, of course, without being told, exactly when the right moment was to wrap his hand around the unsurprisingly beautiful cock that was lying stiff against Stephen's belly hair, and start to stroke in time to his own movement. And when to sense the loss of control in Stephen's body, which became pure rhythm, like an extension of his own, and to let that haze that gathered at the edges of his brain start to spread, and take him over, so that there was no thinking, only power, and electricity, and a vision of golden, sweaty skin underneath him, Stephen's mouth open, and the sound and sensation of him giving it up.

_Oh … oh! … Oh …_

Hot wetness, shooting over his hand, and slicking over Stephen's belly. And his own body, surging forwards and pumping a few more times into the darkness that was always ready to receive him, like a death. A flash of light, behind the eyes. Release. And then soft, red darkness, like an embrace.

Afterwards, Stephen was very quiet. Strange. It was like something had been laid to rest, something that had been jagged between them, out of whack. Brendan felt … unburdened, somehow. In more ways than one. As if they had been fighting, for a long time, pulling against each other, driving each other insane, and they were punched out, exhausted, calling a truce. He felt hands running over his back, legs still curled around his waist, Stephen's head still thrown back, looking up at the ceiling, as Brendan's mouth found his neck, his collar bone, his teeth nipping at his shoulder, his mouth sucking, as he let them come down together from the oxygen-saturated high of it.

Stephen lay back, still, as Brendan finally withdrew from him, kneeling up to clean himself off, and then turning and coming to rest with his back against the pillows. He was being watched, he knew, by a curious pair of eyes. He held out an arm, and Stephen levered himself up, turned his back to rest against the side of Brendan's chest, wrapping Brendan's arm around his shoulders. Brendan felt Stephen's hands, holding onto his forearm. He bent his mouth to kiss the back of Stephen's neck, felt him respond. But still, silence. This was unusual, for Stephen. Usually, he could talk for England and Ireland combined. Some of it not specially enlightening. He wondered what was going on in his head. Behind that unusually serious face, that he could see the side of, beautiful, glowing.

This was usually the dangerous moment. When Stephen started making demands on him. And he had no idea how he would respond this time. He knew what he was capable of. And it scared him, this thing that still sat inside his head, that he had sworn to control.

But when Stephen finally spoke, it was the last thing Brendan had ever expected to hear.

"Would you ever hit a kid, Brendan?" Stephen asked him.

He felt his muscles stiffen. He thought of Declan and Padraig. And another little boy, before them, who he didn't often think about.

"No," he said. There was no hesitation. His voice sounded gruff.

"I don't mean your own kid, necessarily," Stephen said, developing what was in his own mind. "One that was given you to look after. Like Leah with me."

"No," said Brendan again. It was completely out of his terms of reference.

Stephen nodded.

"No, me neither," he said, thoughtful. "I love my kids."

There was a slight pause. He turned his head slightly towards Brendan. Brendan could see his eyelashes. "My step-Dad hit me all the time." Brendan listened. The words broke over him. He was aware of a tightening in his gut. Memories rustled like wind under the door. Stephen didn't seem to need a response. Which was good, because no words would form in his head. "For years I thought I must just be a really bad kid, y'know. For my Dad to leave and my step-Dad to hit me. I thought I needed to man up, like you, and he'd like me more."

The tightening in Brendan's body reached his arm. He felt himself draw Stephen closer into him. He could feel his heartbeat through the muscles of his skinny back pressed against Brendan's right chest.

A dry laugh, that made him sound older, came out of Stephen's mouth. "Doesn't work though, doing it for someone else. In the end, I realised he was just a bastard." He turned his head up to Brendan again, with a confiding tilt of his chin. "You have to do it for yourself."

"Mm," was all that came out of Brendan's mouth. He felt disoriented. Why did Stephen sometimes feel so much like a part of him, like an extra rib or something? Almost as if he was him, in a life that was the same, but different.

Suddenly, Stephen released himself from Brendan's arm, and swivelled around to face him, sitting naked on the bed.

"Suppose you're thinking this is where I ask you to go out with me, and you say no, and it all gets messy and falls apart?" he said.

Surprised, Brendan gave a dry laugh of his own. Raised his eyebrows. "Am I?"

"Yeah," Stephen said, his face serious. "You are."

Brendan found it hard not to smile. "And are you?"

"What?"

"Going to ask me … to go out with you?"

Stephen looked at him, and bit his lip. He shook his head. "No."

Brendan nodded, but felt wrong-footed. "OK," he said.

"Because you're not ready to give me what I need," Stephen said, not waiting to be asked. He got off the bed, and started looking for his clothes.

"Is that right?" Brendan asked him, trying to work out how he felt about that. Relieved, or disappointed. The little fucker was behaving so strangely tonight. He looked at him, shrugging on his boxers and his jeans. "Will you stay with …" he tried to remember the guy's name.

"Noah?" Stephen looked at him. He hesitated for a second. Pulled his polo shirt over his head. Looked back. "Yes."

Brendan nodded again, surprised but trying to hide it. Stephen looked at him.

"He loves me, Brendan. And he actually wants a life with me. I think so, anyway. So unless you're ready to give me that, being out, and all the other stuff, telling Cheryl, and Eileen, and your kids, then I'm staying with him."

Brendan felt a sensation that was equal parts irritation, bafflement and amusement. "What makes you think I won't just tell him what happened here, Stephen?"

Stephen was dressed now, and sat back down on the bed, facing him. "Because if you told him it'd have to stop."

"Right," Brendan said. "This … goes on, does it?" He had never seen Stephen so assertive, so sure. It was a turn-on, if he was honest.

Stephen shrugged. But his face suggested he wasn't as offhand as he was trying to make out. He looked at Brendan. "Not much point pretending it won't, is there?" he said.

"Point," Brendan said, philosophically, but part of him was amazed at what he was hearing. When had Stephen become … like this? Negotiating, rather than demanding? "And what will you tell …" he gestured with his hand, looking at Stephen. Stephen gave him a sceptical look back from under his eyebrows. "…Noah?" Brendan finished, eventually.

Stephen seemed to think about it. "I'll tell him I've got a mate who needs to talk. That's true, right?"

Brendan nodded, again. "OK," he said. This was novel. An affair. He had had plenty, though he'd never thought of using that word, it seemed irrelevant. But he had never been someone's bit on the side, before. They had always been his.

Suddenly, Stephen got up again, leant across, and kissed Brendan on the mouth. Brendan heard himself grunt, amused. "Call me when you need me," Stephen said. And started to move away. He stopped at the door.

"Don't think this is gonna be easy," he said.

Brendan nodded, again. "No," he said.

And then Stephen was gone.

Brendan knew he should feel triumphant. This was a result, right? Stephen, back in his bed. Not even pretending he could stay away. But he felt unsettled. He frowned. There had been a price. He had had to show his hand, or part of it. Lay some of his cards on the table. This time, Stephen hadn't run away. Or he had, but he'd come back. And he realised if he carried on doing it, laying it all out, card by card, there was a prize, right there, that might be worth winning. But Stephen had revealed something, as well. Something that disturbed him, rattled at some padlocks in his head.

At work, the next day, he went down to the cellar. He found himself looking at the wall. He remembered Stephen's voice.

_My step-Dad hit me all the time._

He thought of a boy, cowering, unable to be himself for fear of getting a broken arm, or a cuff around the head, or a slap on the legs, or the face. Or just a punch, leaving you reeling against the furniture. A chipped tooth, bleeding from the mouth.

_Grow up. Don't be such a nancy boy._

And then he was throwing crates against the wall, as if he was trying to break it down. There was the sound of breaking glass. The contents being released under pressure. His own voice, yelling, rough.

And then there was Stephen, again, coming through the door, his voice shocked.

"Brendan … what are you doing?"

Brendan paused, dizzy, unable to focus properly. His chest ached. He frowned. "Why are you here?"

Stephen came over to him, right up close. "I couldn't stay away, could I?" he said. "What's the matter – what's going on?" His face was full of worry. Brendan almost started laughing. Stephen had always worried about him. Then he stopped. He gestured, vaguely around the cellar. Remembered hitting Stephen, the first time. The flash of pain. Something obscuring his vision. He didn't want … he didn't want to keep on doing that, over and over. Or where it had led, seeing Danny, over and over, every day until he closed his eyes for the last time.

"The walls …" He looked around him, but felt half-blinded now. Maybe his head was going to explode.

He was brought back to his senses by the feeling of Stephen's hands on his face. He found himself looking at him.

"It'll be all right, you know," Stephen said, "If it's what you want."

He focussed on Steohen's face. "Will it?" Brendan asked him. He had never wanted to believe anything so much in his life. He almost thought he might let himself believe it.

Because Stephen's hands were still on him.

"Yeah," Stephen's voice said, calm, coaxing. He felt his temple lean against Stephen's. "It'll be all right."

It was strange then, that he thought Stephen might be crying.


	11. Chapter 11

**Part 11: Brendan (3)**

It was the beginning of a strange summer. They were together, in one sense, and not in another. They had given up trying to stay apart, given up trying to pretend they wanted to hurt each other. Or, in Brendan's case, given up wanting to hurt Stephen. There were times, when he saw Stephen out with his fella, the other guy, and the guy's arm was draped around his shoulder, or he saw them kissing, that he was sorely tempted to go over there and tell him the truth. That he was fucking his boyfriend. That his precious Stephen spent at least one night a week (never enough) in his bed, if Cheryl was out, or in a hotel room with him, with his legs wrapped around Brendan's neck, or on his knees. Or just letting himself be stroked, and sucked, and kissed. But he had nothing to gain from doing it. The other guy was irrelevant. He had everything to gain from just letting Stephen come to him. And he kept coming.

It wasn't exactly an elaborate deception. A quick text, and they would meet in the alley, or somewhere else quiet, and sort a time and a place, and kiss, and part. It seemed careless, to Brendan, who was used to secrets. He wasn't even sure Stephen was trying to be careful, when he let himself be kissed in the alley, as if he wanted them to get caught, as if that would move things on for him – for both of them, maybe. But it didn't happen. Instead, it went on. Sometimes, it was as much as ten days before they could hook up, and they went straight to bed, undressing on the way, making up for lost time. Other times, they didn't even have sex.

This was a novelty. Brendan hadn't quite been able to see the point of it. Stephen had come round, stood in front of him where he was lounging on the sofa, hoping – intending - for Stephen to join him, and Stephen just stretched and said, "I'm not going to bed with you, I'm knackered."

"You're … tired?" Brendan asked him, incredulous, wondering if he had bagged himself more of a wife than a mistress, so to speak.

Stephen shrugged and protested, "Well, there's two of you and only one Ste i'n't there? What are you gonna do?"

Brendan looked at him, unimpressed. "I don't know Stephen, what _are_ you gonna do?"

Stephen flashed him a bit of a smile. "I know … this."

He moved across and sat himself down on Brendan's knee. It was a surprise. He hadn't really … well, not since Eileen, really. He felt one of Stephen's arms slide around his neck, and his weight settle. He never weighed anything really. Brendan's arm hooked around his waist.

Stephen was smiling down at him, half shy, half bold. It was impossible not to respond. "Oh, you like this, do you?" Brendan asked him.

Stephen was biting his bottom lip. He just smiled, and nodded. Blushing, a bit. Brendan tightened his hold around his waist, felt Stephen's mouth in his hair, heard him almost laughing. Then he tipped him off his balance, and brought Stephen down to lie beside him on the sofa. Stephen was laughing openly now, protesting.

"Brendan, what do you think you're doing?"

Brendan was in very high hopes that he could still get what he wanted. He lifted up the hem of Stephen's shirt, touching the skin above his hip bones lightly with his fingers, that spot on his pelvic bone with the wingspan tattoo that drive him slightly wild, blowing on it, and then touching it with his lips. He was rewarded again with the sound of Stephen laughing again. It tickled, apparently, especially the tache. He smiled to himself. He had discovered an ability to make Stephen laugh. He tried to remember when he'd last heard him laugh, with genuine happiness, however brief. A long time. Too long. And then he was looking down into Stephen's face again, waiting to go in for the kill.

"We should go to my room," Brendan said, "just in case Cheryl comes back."

But Stephen hadn't seemed to want to move. He just looked up at him, stroking his face. "Cheryl won't mind, you know," he said. "She'll be great about it."

And the whole thing stalled.

This was what happened. They would have sex, or fool around, and it would come back to this. Stephen needed him to do something, and he still didn't even know how to begin. He didn't really understand what it was that was stopping him. He knew that Stephen needed this from him, something. A word, a gesture, that meant it was real. That that was all it would take for Stephen to leave the other guy, and be with him, completely his. And he knew that almost everyone bloody knew already, that he'd been sleeping with Stephen. They didn't know him, his history, who he was, but they knew that. But Cheryl … his family … his kids. It was getting way too close to home. Too close to the people who had made him what he was. Whose respect and pride he lived for. He knew Cheryl was a good person, kind, tolerant, better than him in pretty much every damn way. That once she got over the shock of the betrayal and the lies, she wouldn't care who was in his bed. But he didn't want to be that person to her. Even Eileen didn't know that he was with someone. Since Macca, anyway. Someone who felt as close to him as she had, and he'd been married to her for ten years. Closer, maybe, he thought, as he watched Stephen lying, close in by his side, realising Stephen knew things about him Eileen never had. This young guy, as damaged as he was in some ways, who had crept in under his radar, a thorn in his side that he couldn't get out. That he had stopped trying to dig out. He didn't want to. Stephen was his thorn. He would live with that. He didn't seem to have much choice.

But as the summer ran out on them, so did Stephen's faith. The glow of the reunion started to fade. Stephen kept asking. He kept stalling. It was never the right time. It had felt like a breakthrough, putting the Danny thing aside, but here they were again. Deadlocked. Stephen had got up off the bed, one day. While he dressed, he seemed to be wiping his face. Brendan lay and watched him, mute. Then Stephen turned round. He was crying.

"I can't do this anymore," Stephen said. Steadied his voice. "It's never gonna happen, is it?"

Brendan hadn't been able to find an answer.

Stephen sniffed. Wiped his nose with a hand. Looked him in the eye. "Deal's off, then," he said. And walked out, quickly.

It had been a dark time. He had never felt so powerless. He only knew one thing. He was not going after him again. He drank. It helped him to hold it together, in front of the world. And when he was alone, at night, sitting on the bed, it helped to break him down, until he was ready for something like sleep. It was never a good thing, he knew, to let the drink take you over. He'd seen too many fellas go down that route. But it was irresistible. When he was drunk, he could close his eyes and think of Stephen, without him really needing to be there, in all his awkward reality. One night, the drink had taken him somewhere unusual though. It had taken him out of his pit, and all the way to Stephen's. Except he wasn't there. The person who let him in was this young fair-haired slip of a girl who was basically his nemesis. The one who looked at him like an X-ray machine and saw every flaw. The one who was like a force-field that he had to navigate to even get close to Stephen in the first place. Stephen's ex. The mother of his children. Amy.

He didn't remember all that much about the encounter apart from Amy making him coffee, black, hot, bitter, and a photograph of Stephen, his arms around his kids, cuddling them like his life depended on it, smiling, proud. He's a great Dad, Brendan had found himself thinking, if he was thinking anything at all through the haze of whiskey vapour, before the caffeine had started to bite.

He knew she was still important to Stephen, this Amy. That Stephen confided in her, though he was pretty sure he wouldn't have told her about this. He didn't have that, someone close to offload to, someone who had his back. Never had, not since Peter, back when they were still mates. That just wasn't the way his life hung. And he was still avoiding Pete right now. He saw them around together, just afterwards, Amy and her daft boyfriend, double-dating with Stephen and the other guy. Cosy. Normal. He had meant to walk on by, but he'd been unable to pass without looking. He caught Stephen's eye, looking at him. There was a lot, in that look. _Help_, it said, _I'm lost. Come and get me_. He smiled, but without humour, and walked on by. They had both made their beds. And if that was what Stephen wanted, he knew he could never give it to him.

And then she turned up at the office. He was puzzled. He'd assumed she'd come to warn him off, that somehow she'd got wind of them being together, except they weren't, of course. Ironic, really. But instead, she just sat there, perched on the sofa, her bag on her knees, and asked him straight out about the hurting.

He looked at her, head slightly on one side. She'd asked him that before, was he still hurting Stephen, but this time, it wasn't about the present, or the past. It was about the future. It hadn't occurred to him that they had one, now.

"Will you hurt him?" she asked him.

"No," he said. He didn't even really understand what had driven him to hurt Stephen. He just knew that he didn't need to anymore. Because as long as he stopped, Stephen always came. He didn't know why, or how, but Stephen was his, to look after. He hadn't asked for it, but that was just how it was, and he intended to honour it, if that was what life was chucking at him.

"Do you love him?" she asked him.

She'd asked him that before, as well. And he hadn't even understood what it meant. Now, he wondered if that was what love was, after all. Honouring a commitment to someone else, no matter how much of a fucking headache it was. It was simpler, and more complicated, than he'd ever thought. To his surprise, he found himself nodding.

It seemed to be enough for her.

He had been pretty sure, when she asked him to come round, that it was a set up. He really didn't think she was just inviting him to join the local Mother and Toddler. So he hadn't been all that surprised when he had arrived at the house and found it empty. And then, as he waited, leaning against the wall, soaking up some late rays, staring at the sky, wondering what the fuck was with his life these days, it was confirmed when he saw Stephen heading towards him. Trudging. Carrying a bag, as if he was moving some things back in. It had done something to him, the sight of that bag. Opened up … possibilities.

Stephen had seemed pissed off, but Brendan was used to that. Stephen was often pissy. It was his defence mechanism, a knee jerk reaction when he was vulnerable. Stephen had led the way inside, and sighed when he'd seen Amy's note. He held it up, in Brendan's face. _TALK_, it said. Brendan raised his eyebrows.

"What do you want to talk about, Stephen?" Jesus, these people always wanted to _talk_. Surely there couldn't be much more that needed saying. It always went wrong when they started talking. But Stephen had seemed to know exactly what he wanted to talk about. For a moment, he leaned backwards against the table, running a hand through his hair. He looked tired. At the end of his tether. Brendan had an acute sense of endgame approaching. Then Stephen came over to him, and looked up at him.

"Do you love me?"

That question. It always seemed to come down to that question. He knew the answer. He just didn't know why he found it so hard to say it. But Stephen wouldn't back off.

"Do you love me, Brendan?" he asked him, hope fighting with absolute weariness in his face.

He had let a silence unfold, just looking at that face. He seemed to have been looking at that face now his whole fucking life. It did things to him, that face. But Stephen seemed to take the silence as something else. He started to move away.

"Just go, then," he'd said.

Brendan's hand reached out for him, and he turned. He pulled him in closer, and felt no resistance. Put his hands in his hair, and took another good long hard look at that face, the blue-green eyes like a cat, and the arched eyebrows, and the cheekbones you could cut yourself on, and the way his lips were slightly open in anticipation. He put his mouth very close to Stephen's.

"Of course I love you, stupid …" he said, murmuring it. "What did ya think?"

He had seen Stephen's face fall into the beginnings of a smile, and he had kissed him.

Strange. After all that talking, or not talking, and hurting, and shouting, and fighting, and sex, or not having sex – after all that, and this had been what Stephen had wanted to hear. What he had waited for. What he had waited for, all his life maybe. What he had come back for, and kept coming back for. When they came up for breath, it seemed like Stephen was still smiling. Then Stephen took hold of one of his hands, and led him through to the bedroom. Brendan was almost embarrassed. He'd never let Stephen take his hand like that, but he let it happen because it was what Stephen needed right now. And what he also needed, was to hear those words.

"Tell me again," he said, as he lay on his back on the bed, unbuttoning Brendan's shirt, running his hands over his chest, looking up into his face.

Brendan kissed down his jawline. "I love you, stupid," he said.

Stephen laughed. "Without the stupid bit," he said, dropping his hands to his sides, an appeal in his face.

Brendan dropped his head and planted a possessive kiss on one of Stephen's nipples, exposed. Looked at him. His face, expectant. His eyes, soft.

"I love you," he said.

And the really surprising thing was, it was completely true.

* * *

Afterwards, Stephen had rolled on top of him, and stretched out along his length, his hands on Brendan's chest and his chin on his hands. He looked up at him. Brendan propped one arm behind his head and stroked Stephen's hair idly with the other. There was an expression on Stephen's face which was … adoring. Maybe not as wide-eyed as once upon a time, but … yeah, adoring. And adored. It suited Stephen, being loved. Brendan laughed slightly to himself. He had had men fall in love with him before, and in some ways it met his purpose – it rendered them compliant – but it always ended in a bloody big mess. It was inconvenient, and he avoided it. Ran a mile. But this was … different. This was just like an energy which ran from him to Stephen and back again, some kind of completed circuit which lit up the bulb and continued its way on round, keeping the system functioning, the connection, all the parts working together, alive.

Stephen looked up at him. "Why didn't you tell me before?" he asked him, quiet.

Brendan shrugged his shoulder a little. "It's just not what blokes do, Stephen. Not in my world."

Stephen paused, as if he was letting this sink in. "Tell me about your world, then," he said, finally.

Again, Brendan shrugged, a frown passing over his face.

"Men … y'know, are men," he attempted. "Men get with women. Anything else is just …"

"Just sex?" Stephen asked him, sounding sad, as if he realised now that what he had been at the start had been just that. And he wasn't far wrong, if it wasn't for the fact that Brendan realised now he had always struggled so much more to send Stephen away than anyone else, from the very beginning.

Brendan ran a thumb along Stephen's cheekbone. "Yeah," he said.

"When did you realise first?" Stephen asked him, now. He knew exactly what he was asking. "Was it Pete?" It was clear that Stephen had long since realised that this was not a recent development.

Brendan shook his head slightly, slowly. "There was a guy I knew. I was 'bout … sixteen."

Stephen's face was full of attention. "So what was Pete then?"

Brendan gritted his teeth slightly. It still stung, even after they had rebuilt their bridges. "Pete was a misunderstanding," he said.

"What kind?" Stephen asked him. It was clear it was the day for confessions. Brendan sighed, but tried to contain it.

"I got drunk … so did he … and there were … mixed signals. Crossed wires." He looked down, again. Stephen's eyes on him, intent. "I should never have got in the car. I was pie-eyed. He should never have got in the car, but he did. I crashed. I walked away. He didn't."

Stephen seemed to be trying to process this. His brow furrowed. "Why did you want me to stay away from him?"

Brendan traced one of Stephen's arched eyebrows with his thumb. "Because he knew about me."

"But what?" Stephen asked him. "What did he know that I didn't know already?"

Brendan shook his head again, thoughtful. "That I was a fucking coward, walking away from him. For trying to get away from it, instead of standing up and taking the rap." Because it was more than just Pete he had tried to get away from that night. Darkness sat in the corner of his head, still.

There was another pause. "And?" Stephen asked him. Christ he was like the Terminator tonight, he just never stopped coming.

He took a breath, and set his jaw. Looked down into Stephen's face again. Let himself take pleasure in knowing that it was all his. "Family stuff," he said, eventually. "Things we got involved with. Working for my Dad. " He stopped. That was enough.

"Tell me about family stuff," Stephen said to him.

Family stuff. This was tricky. He knew, really, where this began, and where it ended. His Dad, leaving when he was seven. His Mum, raving about him having some other family up in Belfast. Feeling like his childhood ended, right there, when he was still just a little kid. Having to do things kids shouldn't have to do, but do anyway - scrounge for money, because there was none. Stick up for himself, because there was no one to do it for him. Scam, lie, cheat. His Mum, getting sick of all of it, and a couple of years later, running away from unpaid rent and driving him up to Belfast in the night, through the border patrols. Finding his Dad. Things they had found out about his Dad, then. But he had no intention of bringing that into this room right now.

He talked round it. "I've spent my life keeping my head down, Stephen," he said, recognising the feeling in his own voice. "I just tried to make myself … useful. Get by." He looked down into Stephen's upturned face. "You think this accent didn't mark me out enough? I was the cuckoo in the nest, no question."

Stephen's forehead was rumpled, trying to understand. "But Cheryl always loved you to bits," he said. "Right from the start. She told me."

Brendan felt his mouth curve into a smile. "Yeah, well … I did her a favour."

"She told me you saved her," Stephen said. "She never said what from though."

He frowned, now. Looked into that face, that had been around the block a bit. Realised that he might understand.

"I pushed her out of the path of a hit-and-run merchant. She was about twelve."

It was clear Stephen was processing this. His mouth was slightly open. "How do you know it was hit-and-run?"

Brendan shook his head, slightly. "He didn't stop."

Stephen's eyes were wide now. "So … you saved her from dying in an accident."

Brendan shook his head again. "Not exactly."

Stephen looked confused. "How d'you mean?"

Brendan cleared his throat. "Wasn't an accident, Stephen. He drove right at her." He looked down at him, and saw the shock registered on his face. "Not universally popular, our ole Da'." He heard the dryness, in his voice. Dark memories again. He felt a need to push them back. He didn't want them anywhere near Stephen, those thoughts, anywhere near his golden skin and his dirty blonde hair and his dirtier pink mouth. He stroked his fingers in the hollow that marked the transition between Stephen's neck and his shoulder muscle.

"I'll tell her, y'know," he said to him. "I think it's time she knew what kind of brother she's got."

He barely had time to register what he'd said, the commitment that he'd made in those words. Because immediately, the shadow went from Stephen's face, as he'd thought it would. He looked like he wanted to believe it, but hardly dared let himself. Wanted to let himself be happy, but couldn't, not completely. Not so different from how he was feeling himself right now, if Brendan was honest.

"Is that what this is all about?" Stephen asked him. "Other people? What they think?"

"I don't care about other people," Brendan told him, almost abrupt.

"What do you care about?" Stephen asked him. He sounded wistful. Brendan felt a need to wipe it away. He buried both hands in Stephen's hair as he lifted his head, and moved up a little. He looked into that face, again, the long eyelashes, and the soft, open mouth, and realised that when it was in front of him, like it was right now, he didn't give a damn about anything else in the world. It was everything. He was everything. Right now, here, he was, anyway.

Brendan pulled him close. "What do _you _think?" he murmured, his mouth against Stephen's cheekbone.

"I don't know," Stephen said, deliberately obtuse, lapping it up, but still just a little insecure. "Tell me."

He always needed to be told. He would always need to be told. He would never change. Brendan found himself smiling.

"You," he said, his voice low, and pulled him into a kiss.

* * *

In the morning, they tried to take a shower together, but it was one of those crappy mixer tap affairs, not much more than a dribble, there was barely room for both of them. And anyway, Stephen was all young muscles and wet eyelashes and taut bum and soap, and Brendan just ended up giving up and pushing him against the cool steamy tiles, and then shagging him until he was warm all over, clutching Stephen's legs in his hands, spread wide, and enjoying the way Stephen's hands clung to his shoulders, the sound of his cries, and the cum that ran over their bellies when Stephen was done. He would clean up later, he thought, feeling the trickle of water over his shoulders, the relaxation of his body after it came, deep inside that taut behind, and listening to Stephen's gasping breath, as the muscle contractions rippled through his body, and stilled, and his heartbeat started to return to something like normal, while the water ran off his nose.

It took his mind off what was ahead, anyway. Off finding a way to step outside that door, knowing that he loved this young scrote called Stephen Hay, and that people knew that he loved him, and what they did together, or some of it – finding a way of dealing with all that knowledge of him – and still being Brendan Brady.

Stephen had made him tea, and a bacon buttie. It was another first, to stand there in the scruffy kitchen and be handed tea, and a greasy cob, and to joke over whether brown sauce or red sauce was better, and to watch Stephen tucking in while still talking, and then to lean over and kiss him, and be stopped until Stephen had wiped something off his tache first, and then to kiss him on the mouth, and then on the neck, growling into it, until he laughed. But this was still inside. The two of them.

When he left, he turned around, outside the door. Stephen stood there in joggers and an old T shirt, rubbing his arms.

"Will you ring me," Stephen asked him, tentatively, "when you've …"

"Yeah," Brendan said. He was acutely aware that there were other people around. A couple of teenagers, hanging around on the opposite wall. Probably mainly interested in themselves, like they are. And an old fella, in his front yard, a few doors down. A woman, having a smoke on the other side while her kid played out on a bike. A car parked further down, that looked like it had some guys in it. And him, stood here outside Stephen's house, in his sweater and jeans, saying goodbye to this scrawny lad with half damp hair. Who he loved. Who he had spent the night with, had sex with, because he loved him.

"All right," Stephen said, giving him a nod, and half a smile. It was obvious he expected him to leave.

"Stephen," Brendan spoke to him, direct.

"What?" Stephen looked at him, curious, screwing up his eyes a bit against the morning light.

Brendan stepped up to him, close. Put a hand in his hair. And pulled him into a kiss.

It seemed to go on for a long time. And be over, in a second. As he pulled away, but kept his hand in Stephen's hair, he could see that Stephen's eyes were wide. He couldn't stop himself smiling, just at those eyes. The mouth, dropped open. He put his hand under Stephen's chin, and closed it for him, gently.

"You'll catch flies," he said. And backed away. Turned, and left. He had no idea if anyone was gawping. He didn't bother to look. They meant nothing to him.

He didn't go straight to Cheryl. He went to the club. Partly to freshen up. Partly to check the place hadn't burned down during his unexplained absence. And partly, he knew, because he was still procrastinating. He loved Cheryl to bits, he did. But she was known for making a drama out of a crisis. And because she was, and always had been, the "normal" part of his life, the bit that grounded him, linked him to the world that other people lived in, the one without the shadows. The one who had the right to wind him up and drive him crazy and always knew he would never hurt her. He imagined letting himself into the flat, finding her in her dressing gown, making coffee, no make-up, amused, teasing.

_Well, look what the cat dragged in. Where've you been, dirty stop-out?_

Where did you even start?

"With Stephen."

_Why, with Stephen?_

"Well, because he was a good fuck, at first. Then, because he needed me. Now, because I love him."

He imagined her face. Sighed. His insides crunched. She would hate him. Feel betrayed. And it would be real.

"I sleep with men, Chez."

_Why are you telling me this now? Are you … in a relationship?_

A relationship. Is that what this was? It was, he knew it, of course. He still wondered if he could really go through with it, any of it. But he had given his word. And he had kissed him, to seal the deal. They were in this together, now.

He had been here before, obviously. It was the prisoner's dilemma, right? He remembered himself and Pete, in separate interrogation rooms, being questioned for whatever it was they had been up to, guilty as sin, up to their necks in it, only – what – eighteen? Before it had all gone to shit. But pledged together. Knowing that if they kept the pledge, they would both get off, easy. Knowing if the other one broke it, and you didn't, you were fucked. This was always the dilemma. Do your cut your mate loose and get off scot free, knowing full well they could do the same to you at any time? Or do you hold fast and keep faith that the other fella will make it worth your while?

There were few people in his life he kept faith with. Or who he trusted to keep faith with him. But Stephen was one of them. He was weak, capricious sometimes. But god knows, they had been through enough together. There was no breaking it, now. But he still had to tell Cheryl. And then the world could go to hell.

That was when the phone had rung. And he never got the chance.


	12. Chapter 12

_Thanks to anyone who's taken time to review this - it means a lot, and it's kept me going. Thank you. Here's another update, and there will be two more after this._

**Part 12: Brendan (4)**

Stephen being taken was the game changer.

Suddenly, nothing else mattered. Being with him became a luxury. Being without him became a reality that reached into his chest and stilled his heart. An impossibility. But happening, none the less. The thought that he was being hurt, or that he was scared, filled him with a rage that was ice cold. He never reacted the way other people did, Brendan sometimes thought. He could have wept, chucked stuff at the walls, thrown up. He could have done all of that, and somewhere inside him, a part of him was doing that. But his brain was busy thinking of who could get him a weapon, if he couldn't ask Danny's crew. There must be people, people he'd bumped into along the way. And his body was busy searching the office, looking to see if Warren Fox had hidden anything along the way. And his heartbeat was thick, and slow. It thumped, as if his blood had turned to crude oil and needed twice the energy to push it through his veins.

It would be a lie to say he could hardly remember what happened. He remembered every second. But there were no clear thoughts. There was only instinct, and adrenalin. And fear. It could have paralysed him, that fear, if Warren hadn't walked in when he did. Warren was pure business. He knew Warren Fox was not his friend, never would be. Not like Pete had been. And he got the impression Warren found him and Stephen not much more than amusing. But he seemed to recognise, without needing to be told, that this was serious, and it needed sorting. For good. Because if they knew Brendan was in on Danny, then they would know he was too. And there was something else, as well. When he turned, and ran his hand through his hair, and told Warren that they had Stephen, there was a moment of recognition. Brendan realised he had as good as admitted, just in the desperation of his voice, that he loved him and didn't much give a fuck who knew. And Warren Fox had loved someone, once. Maybe twice. Warren had looked him up and down. And then nodded. Clicked into action.

He produced guns. It felt cold, hard, heavy in his hand, like death. He had fired a gun a few times, been to a shooting range with the lads back home, but not often. They got into the car. Warren gave him some backchat. He played along. He knew Warren was just trying to keep him focussed, calm. Keep him talking. To stop him going completely insane. They both needed their heads if they were going to come out of this one alive.

It occurred to him that he might die. He had lived with death, sitting on his shoulder, for a long time. Since the night he'd steered towards that truck, nearly fifteen years ago. It was like he had cheated death that night and it followed him around. He had got on with living his life as best he could, but he knew, with the choices he'd made, that death was a possibility. It was one of the reasons he loved his kids so much – because he might never have had them. And if it ended, tomorrow, today even, he wouldn't feel like it had been a total waste, because he'd had a chance to be a Dad to them. It didn't even bother him that much, the idea of dying, except leaving those boys without a Dad. But the idea of Stephen dying did. It couldn't happen. He just had to stay alive long enough to get him out of there.

He had stood there, in front of Danny's men, with only Fantastic fucking Fox as his cover, and waited for the end.

But he found out Warren was a surprisingly good wingman, if you were playing for the same team - mainly because he genuinely seemed to have nothing to lose. Under the cover of the sound of Warren's fire, Brendan had run for Stephen. Had found him, tied, bruised, terrified, but brave. Brave enough to get up out of the chair, and to trust him, and to follow him back out, even if he tripped as he ran and thought he'd been hurt. Brave enough to get back up again, and grab Brendan's hand, and start running.

Men had died that day. But not them. He knew, because he'd shot one, full in the chest. The second life he'd taken, and he'd done it on instinct, in the blink of an eye, just blown him away. And he knew that if he had to, he would do it all again. That's just the way it was. They had taken what was his.

They had taken Stephen back to the flat, of course. It was where Brendan could keep him safe. Brendan's nerves felt like taut wire. There was a moment, when Stephen thought he was bleeding, when Brendan's heart had almost stopped. He'd knelt in front of him, grasping at his T shirt, bracing himself to see a wound, gaping, and a spreading bloodstain. He had even put his fingers into the wound, to see how deep it was, as Stephen winced and cried out. He had been … yeah, he had been scared again, right then. He hadn't been scared of anything for a long time, until today. Fear. It made everything else … irrelevant. But it had been nothing but a cut, shallow, if messy. Brendan had started to breathe again, and looked at Stephen, held his gaze.

_You're all right_, he said. _It'll be all right._

He said it for Stephen's benefit. Stephen nodded back at him, white, shaking, wide-eyed. But he needed to say it for himself as well.

And then he had got Stephen up on his feet. And he had stood there, his hand on Stephen's shoulder, and he had explained to his sister that Stephen would be stopping in his room. With him.

He had watched as her face passed through several different expressions. Confusion. Uncertainty. And settled on simple shock.

"Oh," she said, quietly. "_Oh._"

As if it had been her in the wrong all this time, mistaken, not him. He had leant over and given her a kiss on the cheek.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice low. "I was gonna tell you, sis. I was. I just ran out of time, I guess."

And he had taken Stephen off to the bathroom to clean up. He had never done anything like that before, cared for a guy like that. A lover, he guessed. He had stripped him, dropping the torn bloody T shirt and dirty jeans on the floor, and put him in the shower, turning it up as hot as he dared to stop him shivering. And afterwards he had got him out, talking to him quietly all the time, and cleaned and dressed the wound. Stephen was passive, almost mute, just looking to him all the time for reassurance. And then he had taken him to the bedroom, put him into bed, and sat with his arms around his shoulders.

Stephen had just let it all happen, trusting him. One moment, he panicked, started talking about Amy and the kids. They were due back. He would send Warren round, Brendan said, to check on them, and to tell them where he was. Stephen had nodded. And then, unexpectedly, and with no warning, had started to cry. It was the shock, Brendan knew, as he tightened his hold. As he let Stephen cry onto his shoulder, where his face was buried. As he put his mouth in Stephen's damp hair, and murmured to him that it would be OK. He let Stephen cry, for both of them, listening to him gulping in air, and sobbing it out, his face streaked and wet.

Eventually, when the crying subsided, he had lain him down, and laid beside him, on top of the covers. And held him, talking to him until he fell asleep.

Personally, he'd spent most of that evening and night on the phone, a drink in his hand to steady his nerves. Talking to Warren, who said the police were all over Danny's men. To Peter. Pete had to know now. They had contacts, back in Belfast, Dublin. There were networks that still operated, that could smooth things over. But Pete didn't sound sure. He made a suggestion, tentative.

"Do you want to reach out to Frank?" he asked Brendan.

"No," Brendan said. "He's sick." He didn't want these two parts of his life coming into contact with each other. He didn't want Stephen being contaminated by that.

"Brendan," Pete's voice carried on, firm, "I don't think I can do this on my own. I don't have the clout – I've been out of the game too long."

Brendan paused, torn. He ran a hand over his eyes. Trapped, again. He needed to know it was over, to protect Stephen. He would have to go there.

"OK," he said, eventually. "Yeah. Do it."

"What do you want me to tell him?" Pete sounded cautious.

"Tell him it's someone who matters. A friend. Tell him … Cheryl cares a lot about him."

There was a slight pause at the other end. "OK," Pete said, eventually. "I'll make some calls."

Deals were brokered. Men had died because they had taken someone close to Brendan, and that couldn't stand. Pressure was brought to bear. They neither admitted or denied any connection to Danny. Danny was history. Eventually, truce was called. It was how things were done. But it had come at a price, because at the other end of that phone to Pete, on a private number, was his Dad, or his Dad's people. Brendan flinched at the thought. Suppressed a sick feeling in his stomach.

When he was sure of it, he lay down again, fully dressed, beside the sleeping body. Put an arm around him, and settled. Pulled him in close. Buried his own face, for a moment, in Stephen's shoulder, felt him stir. No one touches this again, he thought. Not in love, or in anger. Fucking no one. This is mine, now.

He only slept a few hours that night. In the early morning, he dragged his body off the bed, feeling the impact of the day before, and went silently to the kitchen, bringing back tea in mugs. For a few minutes, he sat on the bed and watched Stephen, sleeping. His face was bruised, marked by the men who'd taken him. It made him feel slightly insane. It was hardly the first time Stephen's face and body had carried bruises. The bruises came from the dark, violent place inside his head. But seeing them doled out by someone else … that was different. That changed things. Shadows shifted on the perimeters of his vision.

And then Stephen had woken, and stirred, and rolled onto his back, rubbing his eyes. And saw Brendan there, watching him.

"Tea," Brendan said, holding it out. Stephen sat up, groggy, and leant back against the pillows.

He waited for Stephen to tell him what he already knew. That he was scared. Not for himself, he said, looking down at his cup, thoughtful. But that he needed to know there would be no danger to the kids, to Amy.

Brendan told him that it was sorted. That he would never let that happen to him, or the people he cared about. But that there couldn't be any fairy tales here. Unless they were dark ones, like the Road Dahl ones he read to his kids, where the bad people got some kind of twisted comeuppance in the end, but the good people weren't perfect either. There were no guarantees. Happy ever after wasn't the world he lived in.

"I'm never gonna be Snow White, Stephen," Brendan said.

Stephen seemed to think about this. Nodded, quiet. "I know." And then he looked up.

"Do you still wanna be with me?" Stephen asked him. Just like that. Just like he always did. A shot, straight to the heart. Strange, because Brendan could have asked him pretty much the same question. He'd thought Stephen might want to walk away, after this. And the only person who could take Stephen away from him now, he realised, was Stephen.

Brendan looked at his face, so serious. It was hard to imagine being apart from it. "Yeah," he said.

Stephen put his cup down. "Good," he said, pushing the covers back, moving over to kneel close to him, apparently unbothered by the fact that under the sheets, he was completely naked except for the bandage against his side. "Cos I don't want to waste any more time." And he put his arms around Brendan's neck, and kissed him. And pulled him down onto the bed.

The next couple of days were … interesting. Cheryl seemed to have done a disappearing act. Staying with Trev, the note on the fridge said. He knew he would have to face her, at some point. He could almost feel her sense of betrayal in that note, with its forced cheeriness – _Make yourselves at home!_ But it was hard to be dominated by guilt when Stephen was lying in bed with him, looking at him … like that. Stephen's phone had been broken when he was taken, so Brendan leant him his own to call Amy. Brendan lay on his side, his head propped on one hand, running the other up and down Stephen's spine as Stephen lay on his front, the phone against his ear. There had been some trouble at work, Stephen told her. Some guys had threatened him, and he'd got a bit hurt. But Brendan had stepped in and seen them off. He had been amazing. Stephen had come back with him, to rest up. He would be stopping there for a bit. Brendan couldn't hear the other end of the call, but he could guess at it.

"Yeah_,"_ Stephen said to Amy, looking at Brendan, his face, glowing. "I think we are."

Together, he guessed. Then there was a long pause. Stephen's eyes scanned his face. "No," he said, eventually. "No, I don't think you will." He smiled, a secret sort of smile.

"What did she say?" Brendan asked, when the call was over. He could never quite get over this stab of jealousy when Stephen and Amy were talking to each other. They seemed so close, like survivors of something terrible.

Stephen's cheek was resting on his folded arms, in front of him. "She told me she hoped she wasn't going to regret this."

The cheeky bint. As if she could take credit for any of this. Brendan leant over and put his mouth against Stephen's shoulder. His hand continued to run down his spine, slowly, from the chasm between his smooth shoulder blades, all the way to the hollow at the base, where it turned into his arse.

"Do you regret this, Stephen?" he asked him, into the skin, his thumb rubbing circles in that hollow.

Stephen's face was rapt. "No, never," he said. "Do you?"

Brendan just laughed, and rolled him over onto his back.

He had to go out, of course. Face them. He went to see her, to fetch Stephen some fresh clothes, because nice as it was, he couldn't stay naked forever. Amy had let him in. There was a moment of awkwardness.

"Is he all right?" Amy had asked him.

"Yeah," Brendan said, his eyes darting around the flat. "He's good, good. Thanks. All good."

"OK," she said. "Well …" and then led him into the bedroom that he already knew all too well, the bed still rumpled from when they were last in it, put Stephen's bag on the bed, opened a few drawers for him, and let him help himself to some of Stephen's usual brand of sportswear. When he emerged with the bag, she was larking around, as usual, with her daft boyfriend. The daft boyfriend, Lee, looked acutely awkward. And covered it up, as usual, with more daftness. He knew, then.

"So …" he said, "do I need to ask if your intentions towards Ste are honourable?"

Brendan fixed him with his most indifferent stare. "No," he said.

The daft guy seemed to take the hint, at least. His face was fixed in a grin. "No," he said. "OK." He looked petrified. Brendan experienced a sense of gratification when he realised it. Being with Stephen hadn't changed that, then.

Amy looked embarrassed and hit Lee on the arm. "Is he coming back soon?" she asked Brendan, turning to him. "The kids are asking."

He looked at her. "I'll send him back to you, next couple of days," he said.

She smiled, and gave him a nod. And he walked out.

For the rest of those two days, he had Stephen all to himself – for the first time, ever. No one interfered. They stayed in the flat. For one thing, Brendan needed the dust to settle on the shooting. He didn't want to run the risk of bumping into any police, or rogue traders out for revenge. And for a second thing, he was very aware that Stephen's ex was still living in the flat next door, and he wanted him as far away from Stephen as possible. To prevent them starving, he suggested ordering take-out, but Stephen peered into the fridge and teased him about not being able to cook anything but fry-up. Instead, Stephen cooked eggs, omelette-style, turning the pan up to run the mixture round. He smiled, while he was doing it, and gave Brendan backchat. Brendan folded his arms, leaned against the wall, watched him. Strange. It felt like they had been doing this all his life. And when they'd eaten, Brendan put music on and threw him a beer from the fridge.

"Nice one," Stephen said, "ply me with booze, why don't ya?"

It was against the laws of physics not to smile. He gave Stephen his evasive look. "Maybe," he said.

It didn't take much. Stephen opened his can of beer, took a swig, and came and stood very close, looking up at him.

"You can try, if you like," he said. And grinned, and drank more, and put his head down on Brendan's shoulder, while Brendan rested his chin on Stephen's hair, and wrapped his spare arm round him, and they swayed, just a little bit, hip to hip, heartbeat to heartbeat, to the dark rhythm that filled the room.

Brendan had a brief, painful realisation that this is what it could have been like, a year before. That very first night. If he had been like other guys, and just gone for what he wanted, instead of having to do it all the hard way. But it was pointless to wish it away. Not when Stephen was right there, his face tipped up, and wanting to be kissed, his mouth tasting of beer, and his body hardening against Brendan's, as the kiss went on, and Brendan started to dance him backwards towards the sofa where it had all started.

In the end, though, the world came to them.

They were lying in bed, Stephen with his head on Brendan's belly, one arm thrown across Brendan's hips, having just had his mouth around Brendan's cock in the way only he really could, in the way that filled Brendan's psyche with its dirtiest instincts, when he heard Cheryl and that boyfriend of hers, that Trevor guy, let themselves in and move around downstairs. It was hard not to feel a reaction in his body, a learned response, knowing Cheryl was so close by, while him and Stephen were … well, like this.

"Come here Stephen," he said, his voice low.

Stephen looked up at him, and crawled up to face him. He laughed a bit. "Sssssssh," he said, dramatically, almost giggling, and put his finger on his own lips, then transferred it to Brendan's own mouth. Brendan looked at his teasing face. The little fucker, giving it back to him like that. It was impossible not to take that finger into his mouth. Give it a long, slow, suck, watching Stephen's eyes widen, and then release it. They lay and listened to Cheryl head for her room. Then Brendan ran a thumb around Stephen's mouth, tracing the outline of his lips.

"We'll go into work, tomorrow," he said. "Cheryl's done enough."

Stephen looked at him. This was what he had waited for, after all. To be out there, together. "Yeah, if you like," he said, smiling at him.

There was no answer to that. Did he like? He had no idea really, how this was going to work. He would blag it, tough it out, whatever. But he had to go out there. He had a life to live. It's just there was someone a bit unexpected living it with him now.

Instead of an answer, he pulled Stephen into a kiss. He might as well enjoy him, while he was still his exclusively. He tasted of both of them, combined. Of himself, sour, and something that was just uniquely Stephen. Something that he just had to keep on tasting, because it tasted of something he was realising he wasn't done with yet, after all. It tasted of life.

In the morning, he showered, as quick as was possible with a very desirable body in there with him, nicking his shower gel, and then got dressed. Brendan was aware of Stephen's eyes on him as he got ready. It had been a long time since anyone had watched him like this. It was usually a private thing. It was an unusual pleasure. He ran his fingers over the moustache that had started as a cover, and had become so much part of him, and frowned to hide a smile. Stephen wasn't fooled though. He got up off the bed and came over to stand with him. Reached up a hand and stroked the hair on his upper lip with a finger. His face had a strange expression, that was hard to read.

"What?" Brendan asked him.

Stephen shook his head, half laughed, looked at him. "Can't imagine you without it," he said.

Brendan looked at him, curious. "I won't change, Stephen," he said. Because what was him, was him now. Part of him. The dark, and the light. He wouldn't hurt Stephen, because hurting him would be like hurting himself. But if he wanted hearts and flowers, out there, he would be disappointed.

Stephen shook his head, again. "Don't want you to. It's you I want." He looked satisfied.

Downstairs, they made tea and toast, but not fast enough to be out before Trevor came down. Momentarily, Brendan wondered how to play it. This was awkward. He'd threatened to rearrange the guy's teeth for thinking he was queer. Acting on instinct, he went for charming, and direct, wrong-footing the guy. He offered him toast. Blatantly flirted with Stephen in front of him. And then got them both out of there as soon as possible, but not before exchanging a glance with the guy that said more, and telling him he would talk to Cheryl when he got home. He owed her that, and this Trevor guy really seemed to like her, at least.

Pulling the front door behind him, with a sense of relief, he glanced to one side. The door of the next door flat had opened, and in it stood that other guy, Stephen's very recent ex. Stephen hadn't noticed; he was standing with his back to the door, looking away down at the village. Something twitched, inside Brendan. He put out a hand and gave Stephen a firm smack on the arse.

"Move it, Stephen," he said.

"Oi!" Stephen protested, looking at him briefly in a way which suggested he was the opposite of annoyed, and walked on ahead. Brendan followed. As he turned the corner to head down the steps, he looked back. The ex, Noah, was still standing there in the door, stock still. His mouth was open. He looked completely shocked. Brendan winked at him, and took the steps at a run. He couldn't resist. He had put his whole life on the line for Stephen. Was still putting his life on the line, in a way. He had played his best hand and it had won him the pot. And for once in his life, he intended to fucking enjoy it.

But he still had something to do. That evening, he sent Stephen home and went back to face his sister. She was waiting for him, as he closed the door behind him and stood, awkward, hands in pockets. She looked at him. Picked a bottle of whiskey up off the table and waved it in the air.

"Thought we might need this," she said, with an unconvincing smile. "Want one?"

He walked over and sat with her at the table, let her pour them two shots. He looked carefully at her face. It was full of hurt, which she was trying to hide. This was going to be hard.

"So," she started, "you and Ste?"

He nodded, wincing slightly. "Stephen. Yeah."

She pulled a face that was supposed to be a smile. "Been going on long?" It was falsely casual. Her painted fingernails tapped on the table top, nervous.

He cleared his throat. "Bout a year," he said. "On and off."

Immediately, her front came down. Her mouth dropped open. "A year!" She sounded horrified.

He nodded. He seemed unable to form words. He fought hard against the temptation to walk out, not to have this conversation.

"And … have there been others?" she asked him.

He paused. Bit down, hard, on his own lower lip. Nodded again.

"Macca?" she asked him. She'd obviously been doing some thinking about this on her own.

He nodded, again. "Yeah." The word sounded strangled.

She lifted the whiskey to her mouth – but then strangely, put it down and pushed it away. Took hold of his hands.

"Brendan … why didn't you _tell _me?"

He looked into her eyes. Remembered all the times she'd been in trouble, and brought it to him. But it was different for him.

He shook his head. "Because that's not … that's not who I am."

She looked uncomprehending. "It's part of it though," she said to him, her voice almost harsh, "wouldn't you say?"

"Chez," he squeezed her hands, "you know why I couldn't … I'd have been crucified. You know that." He looked at her, pleading for her to understand, and to just let it go, knowing she wouldn't.

She seemed almost to get there. "You can't let … other people run your life, Brendan," she said. Ironic, coming from her, who often let other people lead her several times around the garden path before she realised what they were up to and kicked them out of her life. "We're not kids anymore."

He pulled his hands back. "It's not about other people, Chez," he said. He pointed to his head. "It's in here. It's always been in here. Do you get that?" He felt shadows gathering again.

She shook her head. She even looked a little bit afraid. He tried to get back his self-control.

"Haven't you ever had part of yourself you hated?" he asked her.

She screwed up her face a bit. "My calves are a bit fat … and I've never been very happy with my teeth."

He had to fight a desire to laugh, felt hysteria rising. "Well, yeah," he said. "Like that then. There's a part of me that I hate." He looked at her, long and hard. Saw her face settle back into seriousness. "I hate being like this, Chez."

She looked incredibly sad. "But … why?" she asked him. "No one cares!"

"I care," he said.

"I don't understand," she said, sounding pained. "You'll always be my brother. Why do you feel like that?"

It was almost a comfort, to listen to her. She was so … normal. Crazy, nuts, yes, but … normal. Real. He tried to find an answer, from the darkness in his head, that would connect with her, keep him in her world.

"Because it's like being shut out of paradise, sis," he said, eventually. "Like being marked. I'm a married man. A Dad. That's who I am. Who I … who I want to be." He looked at her, again. "But I have this fuckin' … this mark. Like it's on my forehead. I'm shut out of my own life, Chez." It was the best he could do. If she didn't get that, then she would never get it.

"Then … why now?" she asked him, the effort to understand written all over her face. "Why Ste?"

"Because …" did he even know the answer to this question himself? He realised that he did. "Because Stephen's just like me. He's done … bad things. Hurt people."

Cheryl looked confused. "Hurt people?"

Brendan nodded. "Yeah," he said. "But I think …" he had a memory of Stephen, the night before, that morning in the shower. Today, at work, with his secret smile. "I think he knows the way back."

He looked down at his hands, so she couldn't see his eyes. Tried, hard, to keep something like control.

Cheryl seemed to take her time to think about this. Eventually, she spoke. "You love him, don't you?"

He sighed, and shook his head. Why did everyone think this was about love? This wasn't some great chess match between love and death, where love wins in the end, and he walked off into the sunset with Stephen, hand in hand. It was more about death, really. It was more about finally facing what had been following him around since that night with Peter, the headlights, and the darkness, and realising that he couldn't always control the outcome. He hadn't, then, for either of them. He had tried, ever since, to nail it all down, fix the odds, hold fate to ransom. But all he had done was drive nails through his own hands, stop himself from living. It would come when it would come, he knew that now. And it seemed like love was an equally unpredictable fucker. He was tired of trying to hold everything in check, always attacking, never winning. He felt a need to let it all go. Let it happen. He realised his eyes had gone cloudy. He was finding it hard to see.

"Oh, _Brendan_ …" he heard Cheryl say. And felt her hand against his cheek. Her thumb, stroking against the skin. Put his own hand over it. Gave it a squeeze.

It had always been the two of them, since they met, both only kids, suddenly gaining a sibling from nowhere, like a gift from God. Or a curse. It looked like nothing was breaking that.


	13. Chapter 13

_Another little bit of Crossing Thresholds - penultimate part. This backstory is really just out of my head, and other people's ideas. Hope it's OK. Last part up soon._

**Part 13: Brendan (5)**

What came next wasn't easy. It was like separating, splitting, stripping away the parts of himself that weren't real, or that he didn't need any more, like an old scab, and it hurt. He did everything in his power to make sure that no one, not even Stephen, could see that he was walking scar tissue right now, pale and untried, and that when he heard some words, saw some looks, he was wincing behind the front he gave to the world. It hurt just as much as he had expected it to, and more sometimes, and he would wonder what the fuck he was doing.

But then Stephen would walk into the bedroom fresh from his morning shower, his hair still wet and wearing only a towel riding very low on his hips, exposing that wingspan on his pelvic bone which still drove Brendan slightly crazy with desire, and he would know it was pointless thinking of giving him up. Instead, he would reach out and take a corner of the towel between his fingers, and pull it away, uncovering him, watching it slide off his smooth backside.

"Hey," Stephen would say, turning round, but smiling against his will, because he knew he was being admired, naked.

"Come here," Brendan would say. And watch as Stephen got aroused, standing right in front of him. And then pull him down onto the bed, rolling him onto his back, and finding those little circular brown moles just below his left nipple with his mouth.

That was what made it worth forcing himself through the pain barrier.

Or he would come home from whatever business deal he'd been sorting, and find that Stephen had borrowed Cheryl's key to let him into the flat, and he was cooking him spaghetti, or something. And he realised, with surprise, that actually, Stephen was a damn good cook. Better than Cheryl, anyway. And possibly better than Eileen. There would be wine on the table, and Stephen would move around dishing up, confident with what he was doing, and then sit himself down.

"Well, eat up then," he'd say. And the look of anticipation on his face made it impossible to resist.

It had never actually occurred to him before that Stephen was someone with skills of his own, except in the bedroom, and he'd taught him most of that. So this was a genuine revelation.

Or he would watch Stephen at work, back in the black Chez Chez hoodie that he usually wore on duty, and Stephen would catch his eye across the bar as they set up, and smile, and he couldn't resist smiling back, no matter how hard he tried to control his facial muscles. It was self-evident that the staff had guessed, or been strategically told by Cheryl, who was doing her best to make it easy by pretending she had known for ages, and it really was no big deal, though no one really bought it.

"So, you and Brendan …?" he heard Rhys say to Stephen one day when they were both downstairs handling a delivery.

"Yeah," Stephen said, "what about it?" He shrugged, nonchalant. As if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Nothing," Rhys said, backtracking. "It's just … rather you than me."

Stephen stopped and looked at him for a moment.

"Yeah well, don't worry," Stephen said, looking him up and down, cocky. "I think he likes me more than you." Watching from his viewpoint at the top of the stairs, Brendan could see that he was grinning. And he felt a responding twitch around his own mouth.

He was even getting used to sharing Stephen with the other people in his life. Like the night Stephen had promised to cook what he called a "special meal", but then sent him an urgent text asking him to come round to his flat instead. And when he got there, he found a flustered and apologetic Stephen rambling about Amy having to stay late for a parents' evening that he'd forgotten about, and he'd only just got the kids into bed, and how if Brendan was hungry, there were some spaghetti hoops left over. Brendan wandered over to the cooker and looked down into the half empty pan at the now cold and congealed remains of the kids' tea. He cocked his head on one side.

"Is this my dinner? My … special dinner?"

Stephen stuck his chin out, defiant. "Well, what's the matter with it? Leah loves spaghetti hoops."

Brendan dipped a finger into the pan, and examined what came out on the end of it.

"I'm not Leah," he said.

"Well don't eat it then," Stephen said, just a little pissy.

"I won't," Brendan said, and flicked them at Stephen, where they landed on the shoulder of his hoodie.

For a moment, he seemed stunned. "You bastard," he said. Then suddenly, he lunged for the pan, scooped out a handful, and attempted to smear them down Brendan's T shirt. Brendan grabbed his wrists, trying to stop him. Before he knew what was happening, he had one arm gripping round Stephen's waist, almost lifting him from behind, while he tried to push some of the hoops into Stephen's mouth, and he turned his face away, half protesting, half laughing.

"If you think they're so great, you eat them," Brendan said to him, almost out of breath with Stephen's struggling.

"Get off," Stephen yelled back at him, wiping tomato sauce from one hand onto Brendan's jeans.

"You little …"

And it ended, inevitably, with them wrestling on the floor. Until they heard a voice.

"Daddy, what's Uncle Brendan doing?"

It was Leah, in the door. And it was a very good question, because it had been getting quite heated, with Stephen's hands pinned to the floor, while Brendan practically mounted him, one leg pinned between Stephen's. He released Stephen as if he'd been stung, and watched him jump up off the floor, and take Leah by the hand to take her back to bed.

"I'm sorry, Stephen," Brendan said, standing up and catching his breath, his chest constricted, feeling not for the first time that this was moving way too fast at times.

Stephen turned his head as he left the room with the little girl, and just grinned.

"Don't be," he said. "We'll pick up where we left off in a minute."

And with that, it just seemed to be all right. There was never any conflict in Stephen's mind, between the rest of his life, and Brendan. It was seamless. Sometimes, he envied him. His own was still in boxes, carefully separated, much of the time. He knew it was time to start shaking things up a bit. It was all part of prising out those nails which had held him in place for most of his life, pinned, stuck. He just wasn't completely sure what he would do with those hands once they were free. If he could trust himself. It was a risk.

He took Stephen to Dublin. Watched him lean over the railing of the ferry, excited, the wind lifting his hair. Watched him wander the streets, wide-eyed. Took him to meet an old friend, Alan, someone he hadn't seen for ten years, one of the only people who he knew might understand Stephen's presence in his life. Watched Stephen drink Guinness and talk proudly about how they worked together, how they'd met that way. Later, watched him lose in the casino. And then win, big. Took him back to the hotel and made love to him like there was no tomorrow. And then drove to see his kids, and Eileen, and told her. It wasn't a one-off, the thing with Macca, the way he'd told her before. He was with another man. She didn't seem all that surprised. If anything, she seemed less surprised than he was, though she didn't exactly break out the bunting at the idea of meeting him.

She was persuaded to come over – mainly by Cheryl, in the end. The kids came too. He felt torn in two. He felt overjoyed, completely fulfilled, to have his boys with him. He spoilt them, insanely, he knew it. But at the same time, there was Stephen. That was the point of the whole thing. Get them together somewhere, see if the world came to an end. That was why he'd suggested the park, somewhere outside. The thought of them all together in one room made the veins in his head throb. He felt the need for an escape route. In the end, it had been fine. The boys had liked him, though he didn't completely explain who he was. What he was. And Eileen was fine too, though she'd seemed withdrawn from him at the start. But he knew, as he watched Declan play-fighting with Stephen, and felt the lines between his worlds getting fuzzy, that Declan wasn't the only one who was learning to walk without falling here.

At the airport, when he was seeing them off, they checked in the luggage and went to get a drink together. Brendan's insides were already knotted with the knowledge that he was parting from his boys again. He wanted to make every second of it last. He didn't really know, even now, how his life had ended up like this. Ripped apart.

Eileen leant forward over her coffee. "It'll be all right, you know," she said, encouragingly.

"Will it?" he said, wanting to be sure. Not feeling it.

"Sure," she said. "Stephen seems nice." Brendan bent his head over his coffee, smiled to himself, a bit grimly. His wife, or his ex-wife, whatever she was now, the mother of his children, giving the seal of approval to his new boyfriend. Not something he had ever anticipated in his life. "And everyone knows now, right?"

He narrowed his eyes. "Pretty much everyone, yeah." He rattled a teaspoon against the sides of his cup. For no reason other than he was twitchy. She seemed to sense it. She hadn't been married to him for ten years for nothing.

She looked at him more seriously.

"Does Frank know?"

He looked down at the teaspoon in his hand. It shook, just a little. He tossed it aside. And did his best to give her a smile, but it got no further than the corners of his mouth.

* * *

In the end, he told no one he was going. He told Stephen that he'd be out for a whole day, that he had some business to sort out. But he'd be back the same evening, late.

"I'll wait up for you, if you like," Stephen said to him. Then picked up on his hesitation. It wasn't like Brendan to turn down a night with him. "Only if you want me to, though."

Brendan frowned. "Sure," he said. He wasn't sure what state he'd be in when he got back. What would be left of him. If anything. But he could see Stephen was trying to help.

"OK," Stephen said, backing off slightly, zipping up his hoodie, getting ready to leave, as if he was wary of pushing it any further.

"Stephen," he said, reaching out for his arm.

"What?" Stephen's face was careful. Brendan didn't want him to feel like that. He could already feel this force, from way off, pushing in between them. He put his hands in Stephen's hair, burying his fingers. Then kissed him, long and hard. Like taking a last drink. When he pulled away, Stephen seemed breathless, and a bit wide-eyed.

"It's only a day," Stephen said to him.

"Yeah," Brendan said to him. It was just a day. Like any other day.

"You'll be back tomorrow night," Stephen said, as if he needed reassuring.

"Yep," Brendan said. It seemed to be enough.

"OK," Stephen said, freeing himself. "I'll see you tomorrow night then."

"Yeah."

Stephen was looking at him out of those strange blue green eyes. It was unnerving. Then he leant up and planted another soft kiss on Brendan's mouth.

"I love you," he said, quietly.

Damn. He always made everything so hard.

"Yeah," Brendan said. "I know."

And Stephen just smiled at him, and backed away, but he gave a last look over his shoulder before he headed down the club stairs and off into the night, to his kids and his Amy.

Brendan caught an early flight on the bargain basement airline, the full cattle truck experience, and was in Belfast by mid-morning. It had a particular smell, Belfast, that stirred something in his brain. Sort of fresher than Dublin, less dusty, but less relaxed, with more of a small town feel, hemmed in by the hills, ringed by them.

He called in first on Cheryl's Mum. Maybe he was putting off the evil hour. Or maybe he was just preparing himself. He was just glad that they'd helped her to move out of the old family house after they'd all left, and into a bungalow on the outskirts – it had fewer memories. He knew he probably should have hated Cheryl's Mum for tempting away his Dad, but she had always taken care of him, at some cost to herself, when she could have thrown him off, and he was grateful to her. She was a nice person, Moira, solid and attractive, who looked on the bright side of most things, didn't ask too many questions, and turned a blind eye to the things she thought she couldn't do anything about – much like her daughter.

When she came to the door, she looked completely surprised, but pleased.

"Brendan!" she said, coming out and giving him a hug. "Why didn't you tell me?" He winced. He was getting asked that a lot lately. She pulled back and looked into his face. "You look well. Are you here for the kids?"

"No," he said, "not this time. Just some business. And I've come to see the old devil."

She looked even more surprised. "Oh, he'll like that," she said. "It's been too long. He misses you, I'm sure."

"Sure," Brendan said, setting his jaw, just a little. Trying to smile.

"How is he?" he asked, when he was inside, standing in the living room.

"Not so great, Brendan," her voice called back through from the kitchen, where she was boiling up the kettle. "Needs a lot of care, y'know, but the home are very good."

He grunted, in return. Wandered round, looking at the few familiar things, pictures of Cheryl, one of him and Eileen and the boys, which seemed like a different life in some ways. And then one, in a frame, that was beside the TV. That showed his Dad. About the age Brendan was now. Handsome, with a moustache. And smart, in his policeman's uniform.

Moira came in, holding a mug out for him.

"So, how are you, Brendan?" she asked him. "Cheryl was dropping hints you might be seeing someone."

He took the mug. "Mm," he said. Smiled.

* * *

This was what he and his Mum had found, when they finally turned up at his Dad's door. A different man, with a different life.

He hadn't seen him for at least three years by the time his Mum had packed up their few things, desperate, and done a flit in the night, driving them up to Belfast in her knackered old car. They had slept in it, parked in a side street, and then landed on someone she knew, some bloke. For the next few days, they couch-surfed and scrounged. He slept on the sofa of the strange house of the strange man, and hated it, especially the noises that were coming from the bedroom, the noises that he knew were the price his Mum had decided to pay for a roof over their heads for a little while. He covered his ears and tried to block it out.

Luckily, it hadn't taken her long to track him down. It seemed that quite a few people knew him, if you asked in the right pubs. While she searched, he'd been left to wander the streets of Belfast - he hated the house so much he couldn't stay in. He nicked bits and pieces to eat from shops, packets of crisps, anything he could get hold of. But after only a couple of days, she came back to the house, told him to shove his stuff back in a bag, and they were back on the move.

He remembered arriving at the house. Nice house. Respectable. For a respectable family. A woman, answering the door. Looking them up and down. Not rude, just curious.

"Can I help you?" she asked them, in that funny Northern Irish accent that was so different from their own.

"Yes, I think so," his own Mum had said. "We've come to talk to Francis. Francis Brady."

The woman looked confused. But had turned, and called into the house. "Frank!"

A man came to the door, behind her. His face turned to stone, when he saw them.

"Thought you might like to see how your son's getting on," his Mum said to him.

And the other woman's mouth fell open.

But there was something else.

"I see you're married, _Frank_," his Mum said, with emphasis, pointing to the ring on his finger, that matched the one the woman was wearing. "That's nice."

That had been confusing. Because Brendan had thought his Dad was still married to his Mum.

* * *

In the years that he'd been gone, it seemed that Francis Brady had reinvented himself. In Dublin, he was small time, but he had a lot of contacts, some of them very dodgy. He was good at that. Charismatic, good at keeping people onside, and if they threatened to drift offside, good at finding their weak spots and bringing them back to heel. Brendan had thought he was God, for all he was more than a bit scared of him. He'd craved his approval, and sometimes he got it, and his Dad would indulge him, and that was like being shown a little bit of paradise. And sometimes he didn't, and his Dad would lash out, angry, drunk, and he felt like he was in a wasteland, cast out, not worthy of being loved. He learned, quickly, that the best way to get the first was not to show how much the second upset him. He spent nights with his palms pressed against his eyes, trying not to cry. Blokes don't cry, his Dad said.

But he'd been ambitious, Francis. He'd got big plans. And his plans seemed to involve leaving one day, and not coming back. They'd been tossed away, him and his Mum, like trash. And so had his old life. It seemed like the person who was Francis was gone. In his place was Frank. The good copper.

To this day, Brendan didn't know how he'd managed to blag his way into the police recruits. False references, probably, supplied by one or two of those contacts, plus the citizenship he gained when he married Cheryl's mother. They had loved him, apparently, this Catholic recruit to the RUC – it looked good for their ethnic targets. He was squeaky clean.

Except he wasn't. After a couple of years, passing exams, plodding the streets, Frank Brady got his stripes. And things started to flow in and out of the station in very interesting ways. Drugs mainly. Information. Information about drugs. Or weapons. He was valuable. He was untouchable. He was protected. As time went on, he was Kingpin. He was Frank Brady.

It didn't stop him looking abashed right now though, as he stood in the kitchen, faced by his current and previous wives, in the same room. His face was ashen. Furious.

"I'll be leaving Brendan with you, then," his Mum said, the look in her eyes challenging him to deny her, daring him to make her spill that their marriage was still current. "I've done my best. But for some reason we've got fuck-all cash." It was aimed squarely at him.

Brendan had looked at her, a cold feeling shooting through him. She was leaving him. Dumping him, like baggage.

She put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry, Bren," she said to him, her voice softer than it had been for a long time, "This lady'll look after you now." She turned to the woman. "Moira, is it?" The woman, nodded, mute. His Mum gave a dry laugh. It hid a world of feeling. "Probably better at it than I am."

"He's not staying here," his Dad had said.

"Yes, he is," she'd replied, calm, sniffing. Then turned to him, again. Gave his shoulder a squeeze. Kissed him on the cheek. And then murmured something into his ear.

"Don't let the bastard get to you," she said.

And she shouldered her bag, and walked out.

His main memory, apart from the feeling of searing abandonment, and a fear of looking at his own father, who seemed like a stranger, was of the woman, standing with her back to the kitchen, and to her silent husband, her hands apparently gripping the kitchen top.

"Moy …" he started.

But suddenly, at the sound of his voice, she seemed to pull herself together. Her back straightened, and she started to pull out bread and butter.

"Sit yourself down, Brendan," she said. "You look famished." Her voice was tight.

He looked awkwardly towards the table, unsure. And noticed someone else was standing in the kitchen doorway, or just outside it, peering around. A girl, with curly fair hair, watching him with curious eyes. The woman noticed her too.

"You'd best come in, Cheryl," she said to the girl, her voice full of emotion, contained. "You'll be wanting to meet your brother."

* * *

She never came back for him, his Mum. He could only guess that she'd gone to find work somewhere, made a new life for herself, or not, and thought he was better off with his Dad. He got the occasional card, sometimes even on the right day for his birthday, and then after a couple of years … nothing. He closed his heart.

He had caught his Dad looking at him, curious, speculative, in the weeks that came. Critical. Scrutinizing. Looking for … something.

At first, he'd tried to stay out of everyone's way. Barely spoken two words. But he started to realise that that was all wrong. His Dad hated people who couldn't stand up for themselves. Despised them. Preyed on their weakness. Pushed them around. Bullied them, verbally. Sometimes, hit them. Hard.

He started to see if he could be something different. Something he'd already started to learn on the streets of Dublin. He learned to survive by being Big. By punching above his weight, and then making that his world. If you talked Big, looked Big, people believed in it. It was amazing, how easy it was to get people to fall for the illusion. It was so seductive. And if you kept it up for long enough, he found, the illusion started to become real. It was who he was. He was Brendan Brady.

And he started to feel that his Dad looked at him with something a little more like respect.

* * *

As Brendan followed the nurse down the corridor of the care home, he found himself wondering randomly if he should have brought something. Grapes, maybe. Wasn't that what you were supposed to bring people who were sick? Too late now though, really. He'd arrived empty-handed that first time, he guessed. Might as well stick to the pattern.

He was shown into a private room, and the nurse gave him a smile, and left. In a chair, near to the light from the window, was a figure. He looked smaller than he remembered, Brendan thought. And prematurely aged by illness, because he was only mid fifties. It was a shock, actually, in one way. Brendan hadn't been here for well over a year, and it had changed him. The figure turned his head to look at him. Their eyes met.

"Hello, Dad," Brendan said.


	14. Chapter 14

_Final part! And a big update to finish on. Huge thankyou to everyone who's reviewed this, to the people on DS who prodded me to keep going with it and who come up with so many lovely ideas, and to Radiohippie again for letting me borrow the character of Alan. I promised to write her some fluff ages ago and I never did it, so I should probably dedicate this last bit to her! I've been through some massive ups and downs while I've been writing this, and so has the story onscreen, so I guess I'm just happy to have finished it. Hope you enjoy it._

**Part 14: Brendan (6)**

Frank Brady had advanced emphysema. He was hunched in his chair with an oxygen cylinder beside him and a mask pressed to his face. Brendan contemplated him. He'd always smoked, his Dad. Always a fag in his hand in the evening, the smoke curling up into the air of the room. He could blow circles of smoke. That was one of Brendan's earliest memories, his Dad blowing smoke rings into the air. He had been completely in awe. Brendan had given up the smokes himself when Eileen was expecting Declan. After Niamh, they hadn't wanted to take any risks. He'd taken up compulsive gum chewing instead, to fill the gap. Eileen had screwed up her nose and said it was horrible, she could always hear him chewing, but it had filled that addictive space, and he actually came to like it. It unnerved people, when he chewed at them. And you never knew when you might want your breath to be fresh. Or need freshening, after.

There was still plenty of his old Dad there though, it seemed. He took the mask off his face.

"Brendan," he said, croaking a bit, "what the fuck brings you here?"

"Good to see you too, Da'," Brendan said, unable to keep sarcasm from his voice.

"Don't get arsey with me, son," his Dad retorted, but with something like a wink. His voice changed, gained more warmth and definition as he got into his stride. "Come and sit yourself down." He was good at this, his Dad. Good at persuading people to come close, and to stay close.

"You're all right," Brendan said, staying upright, looking down at him, his hands in his pockets. "I'll stand. Been sitting down on the plane."

Frank shrugged. "Please yourself." He seemed to scrutinize him, in that same old way, take him in, looking for whatever it was he was always looking for. Brendan had no idea really, whether he found it or not. Or whether if he did find it, he actually wanted to.

"So," Frank said, "how's life with you? Not seen you since you left."

"Good," Brendan said, "good. Still running the club for Cheryl, you know. Business is good."

His Dad looked at him, nodding, clearly pleased. He felt the force of that approval, just as he had from way back when. He winced and resisted it, the powerful seduction of it.

"How's that partner of yours?"

For a moment, Brendan froze, awkward. Then realised what he was being asked. "Warren Fox?" He shrugged. "He's probably stabbing me in the back right now."

His Dad laughed, wheezy. Again, Brendan resisted the glow of mutual understanding, and satisfaction. He shook his head. "He's all right. He's pretty useful, when he feels like it."

His Dad was nodding, now. He frowned. "What was all that trouble I got dragged into, couple of months ago? Couldn't you fucking handle it, the two of you's?"

Brendan shrugged. "It was … complicated."

His Dad's eyes were narrowed, now. "So, are you gonna tell me, then?"

"What?" Brendan's eyes slid to the window, the view outside.

"Who this young fella was, who was stupid enough to get himself into so much trouble that I got called in the middle of the night by your old mate." His Dad sounded cantankerous about it.

"He wasn't stupid," Brendan said, setting his jaw, forcing his gaze to come back to his Dad's face. "He was … unlucky."

"Weak, more like," Frank said. "A friend of Cheryl's, you said?" Brendan was aware he was under scrutiny again. He could feel his eyelid flickering.

"Yeah," he said, levelly. He hadn't meant to say any more, but for some reason his mouth opened again. "He's a good lad."

Again, that look. "Good lads can still get hurt, can't they?" he said to Brendan, without sympathy. "You'd best warn him."

Brendan cleared his throat. "He knows."

His Dad seemed partially satisfied. He sat back, more comfortable, in his chair. He suddenly seemed almost chipper. He'd always been like this, moody, unpredictable.

"So, found yourself a new woman yet then, Brendan? Cos your Eileen's running all over town with that Michael Donovan, so I heard."

Brendan shook his head. "No …" he said. "No."

His voice sounded odd, unconcerned. But he became very aware that at the edge of his vision, in a corner of the room, there was a dark figure.

"Making a right laughing stock of you, she is," Frank went on. "Letting another fella play Daddy to your kids."

If I turn my head to look at it, Brendan thought, it'll disappear. But it's there. I can see it.

"What happened to the last one?" Frank was asking him, somewhere in the distance, in the other corner. "Went off with Cheryl's fella, didn't she? Moy said something about it. Right pair of disasters aren't yis?"

Brendan stood and looked at the floor in front of him. He was strangely aware only of his own heart beating, with a dead thud, and the figure in the dark corner. It had always been there, he thought, that figure. But he'd never been so aware of it as he was right now. It had been waiting for him, for a long time. Waiting for him to do something.

He took a sudden breath.

"I have got someone, actually," he said.

Frank looked at him, his eyebrows raised. "Why didn't ye say so?" he asked. "Pretty girl, is she? Cos that last one was very nicely put together, from the pictures Cheryl sent."

Brendan gazed out of the window again. The sky was white grey.

"It's not a girl," he heard himself say.

"Oh," Frank sounded a bit taken aback. "Your age, is she? Oh well, don't suppose you wanted many more kids, did you, with your two?"

Ironic, Brendan thought, thinking of the two extra little ones back home who he seemed to have ended up in some way responsible for. He shook his head, again.

"It's not a woman."

There was a pause, as he realised Frank was looking at him, puzzled.

"What are you talking about, Brendan?" He was half laughing, with his wheezy laugh, that had once been like a bark, a clarion that people jumped to.

Brendan forced himself to look at him. It was very still in there. Stifling, really. Just him, his Dad, and the figure in the shadows.

"It's a man, Dad."

There was a pause.

"What?" his Dad said to him, eventually.

Brendan gave a sort of sigh and straightened out his shoulders. "A man … It's …" he coughed and steadied his voice, "It's a man," he said, again.

There was another pause. It was strange, Brendan thought, that he should be here, right now, but not here at all. He wasn't here, having this conversation, this life. He was somewhere else. He was at home, with someone else. Someone who looked at him like he was something pretty special. Someone who was separated from him, right now, by a bloody big stretch of sea and the look on the face of the man opposite him. He hoped he would get back to him, he thought. Somehow.

"Is this some kind of sick joke, Brendan?" Frank asked him. "Cos I'm not laughing right now."

Brendan shook his head, slowly. It was difficult to get back to him, he thought, when time seemed to have stopped, and the figure in the corner wouldn't let him leave.

Frank's face had completely changed. It was metamorphosing from uncertainty, to shock, to … hate.

"Are you telling me you've got some little queer on the go back in England?"

Brendan looked at him, levelly. Cleared his throat. Not because he was nervous, but because he wanted to be heard.

"He's gay, Dad. The word is gay. He sleeps, y'know … with men." It was strange, in his mouth, that word. He didn't think he'd ever uttered it except as a taunt before. Now, it sounded oddly normal.

"With you?" Frank asked him, incredulous, but his eyes starting to focus on him very hard.

There was a long pause. "Yeah," Brendan said.

Frank's lip curled, in disbelief. "So what does that make you, then? A faggot?"

Brendan looked out of the window again. Nodded, absently. "Yeah … queer, faggot … all of that. Yeah."

He kept his eyes on the trees outside the window. The leaves were changing colour. Would be coming down, soon, he thought.

"Have you gone insane?" his Dad was asking him. "Is this some kind of breakdown? Is that it?"

Brendan shook his head, equally absently. Stroked a hand over his stubble. "No," he said. "No. I was thinking of asking him to move in, actually." It was strange to hear himself say that. He had never actually thought about it before. But it seemed right.

There was a long, thick silence. Eventually, it was broken.

"I always knew," his Dad's voice said. "I always knew there was something wrong with you."

There was a sneer in the voice. He was laughing at him.

Brendan turned his head slowly, to look back at him. "Did you?" he drawled.

Frank laughed openly then, in his face. A breathless, dry laugh, that sounded cracked.

"Cards on the table?" he said. "Yeah. I always knew you'd never make a man. I did my best."

"Did you?" Brendan said, a sense of manic energy rising, that he couldn't always control. "Right, yeah. You did your best."

His Dad was looking at him now with a mixture of pity, and something else. Absolute rejection, he thought. Frank laughed again, harsh.

"All I'll say is, if you're seriously telling me you're a fucking shirt-lifter, you'd better watch your step," he said.

Brendan's head tilted on one side. "Why's that, then?"

Frank shrugged. "Well, you puffs, you're fair game, aren't you?" he said, his voice full of derision. And something darker, that ran through the words.

Brendan registered the threat in his voice. His Dad still knew people in all sorts of places.

He had the strangest sensation that the figure in the corner was stepping nearer, bringing the shadow with it.

He nodded. "I remember," he said, his voice almost failing.

He remembered being nearly fifteen, already tall and strong for his age, if slim, and being out with his Dad and his Dad's mates. Feeling like a man, accepted, top of the world, his Dad a king among kings. Drinking, smoking, gambling, joking. And he remembered a young guy, getting caught doing something he shouldn't have. Something dirty, apparently. With another guy, who had legged it. Something so dirty, and perverse, it meant he was barely human at all. Something that meant he deserved a beating, apparently. He wasn't like them, so it was OK. He remembered standing on the edge of the group, a strange thrill going through his body, that was part excitement, part confusion, and part sickness. He wanted to run, but couldn't. He wanted to save him, without even knowing why, but couldn't. He saw blood. And then the crowd parted, and Frank was standing there, beckoning to him, his hand out.

"Come on, Brendan," he said. "There's someone here who needs to be taught a lesson."

He hadn't wanted to do it. But he had to. That was when he discovered an ability to split himself in two. He wasn't really there. But he punched the guy into oblivion, while his Dad watched. It didn't matter, because he wasn't really there, and the guy wasn't like him.

Afterwards, when he was alone, he threw up.

Less than a year later, he met Alan, and Pete. And something had happened to him.

"Queers can expect a beating," Frank said to him, now. It brought him back into the room.

He took a deep breath, sucking in air, straightened his back. Stepped up to the man in the chair, and looked down at him, his head on one side. He had never really realised how much he hated him. He had thought he felt nothing.

"And bigamists," he said, "can expect to get put away." His voice was calm, and smooth.

Frank looked at him, momentarily off his stride, doubtful. Then he scoffed. "You wouldn't do that," he said. "People would get hurt. Moy would. People you care about." His face was triumphant.

Brendan leant over now, and put one hand on each arm of his Dad's chair. Watched Frank shrink back a little. Brendan's jaw was set so tight he could barely get the words out.

"People have already got hurt," he muttered, into his Dad's face. "So, try me."

For a second, Frank almost looked afraid. Then he laughed.

"Look at you," Frank said. "You're not fit to be a Dad to those boys."

Brendan's entire body was filled with a sense of blank, white rage. He gripped the arms of the chair, and leant closer in, so that his face was inches from his father's.

"And you're a good judge of that, are you?" he asked. He felt bile, sour, in the back of his throat. He knew he was shaking. Frank could see it, too. He had always been good at spotting a weakness. His Dad looked him up and down. He was starting to struggle with his breathing. But there seemed to be something he wanted to say, before he stopped. Brendan leaned his ear in, very close, to hear it. Finally, it formed itself into words.

"You disgust me," Frank said to him. He pressed the oxygen mask back to his face.

Brendan watched him, sucking in the air, for a couple of moments. Then, without really thinking about what he was doing, he put his hand over his father's, and prised it away from the mask, without effort. He took the mask in his own hand. Pulled it away from Frank's face, and watched, interested, as he started to struggle, and suck in air, laboured, painful. It looked pretty bad, ugly. And he realised that for the only time he could remember, there was fear in Frank Brady's eyes.

Brendan wondered, idly, how long it would take to watch him die. Not long, probably, he thought. He would have a seizure, or a stroke, or organ failure, while he was suffocating. His eyes would go dim. And that would be that.

The figure in the corner seemed to take another move towards him. It was very close now.

He wondered if he'd ever really had a choice. If maybe this was how it had always been going to end, if this is what he was here to do, if this was the only way to be free, by letting the shadows that had followed him around all his life take him.

But then two words formed in his brain. Very, very clear. Something he had wanted to say for a long time. He should have said it before. Every time he'd been told that he was useless, a disappointment, a fuck-up, unworthy. But he'd just been a kid, scared, wanting to be loved. Deserving to be loved. Like Stephen had been. Like Declan was, now.

He leant in, as close as he could, and spoke them, low, into his father's ear.

"It's mutual," he said.

He laughed. Then he pushed the mask back over Frank's now ashen, terrified face. Stood up, and looked down at him, as he sucked in air, desperate. It would only be a matter of time before his Dad hit some kind of panic button, he knew.

He stood back, and looked around. There was only the two of them. No one else. It was just a room, in a care home, with a sick man in it, and one who had been sick, but was recovering.

He walked to the door, and turned around. The person in the chair was looking at him in a way he never had before. With shock. And fear. And something that was just a little bit like jealousy. Because it was good, Brendan thought, to be in his thirties, to have two beautiful kids, and to finally know who he was. Had Frank thought he would never grow up? He wasn't that shivering hungry kid, any more. Or that insecure, cocky teenager, desperate to please. Brendan Brady had grown up. He was the man, now.

He took out a stick of gum, and folded it into his mouth.

"Enjoy your retirement," he said. "Dad."

And he walked out of the room and away down the corridor.

* * *

By the time Brendan reached Stephen's flat that night, it was late. He felt drained, exhausted. There was no answer, but he could see a light was still on, and peering through the window, he was pretty sure Stephen was in there, and he needed to see him. He fished underneath the holder for the milk, and found the spare key. Seriously, these kids were transparent sometimes, but then he supposed they didn't really have anything worth nicking. He would have to have words with them, though. The world was a dangerous place, with bad men in it. He let himself in, quietly, and wandered into the living room.

He stopped and looked down. Stephen had fallen asleep on the sofa, half curled up. Waiting for him, presumably. He sat down on the arm of the sofa, and let out a long sigh from deep in his chest. He cocked his head on one side. So pretty, this boy-man, with his eyelashes fanned out on his cheeks, and his golden skin, and his dirty pink mouth partly open. He wasn't even sure how he'd got here, so completely unable to separate himself from him. So completely unwilling. He wondered when it had got too late to just walk away, start again somewhere new, start the whole cycle again, seduce, control, lose it, retreat. At least that had been predictable. Was it too late to walk out, and go back to the time when he was absolutely certain about everything, what he was, and what he wasn't? He knew it was, way too late. Nothing was certain any more, except that they had both ended up here, and Stephen was the prize, and what Stephen brought him.

He shook him by the shoulder.

"Stephen." He spoke low to avoid waking up the rest of the house.

Stephen stirred. Opened his eyes and looked up. Frowned. Rubbed his face.

"How'd you get in?" he asked.

Brendan rolled his eyes. "What kind of welcome is that? I used the spare key, Stephen. I can't walk through walls. But you should maybe … think about … another location."

Stephen sat up, rubbing his neck, squinting a bit. "All right, all right." He seemed a bit cranky.

"Did ya miss me?" Brendan asked him.

Stephen pouted a bit. "You've only been gone a day," he said, with a teasing, sidelong glance. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Oh," Brendan said, raising his eyebrows. "Cos, I can always, y'know … go." He gestured towards the door, but didn't move.

"No," Stephen interrupted, quick enough. He knelt up on the sofa and shifted close to him. "Did you get it sorted?" he asked him, looking up into his face.

"What?" Brendan asked him, just scanning his face, taking him in.

"Whatever it is you went to sort."

"Oh, that," Brendan said. Looked at him again. "Yeah," he said, lazily. "I sorted that."

Stephen frowned a little, as if he knew this was front.

"Is this something I need to know about?" he asked him.

Brendan looked down into the upturned face. Shook his head, slowly. "Not now, no." Stephen looked a bit disappointed, shut out. Brendan's hand reached out and stroked the hair out of his slightly troubled eyes. "I will tell you, though. One day."

"Will you?" Stephen asked him.

Brendan's hand moved to his face, stroking his cheek, and chin with a thumb and finger, his thumb rubbing the indentation of his chin. He smiled. "Yeah. Trust me."

Stephen seemed to know from the way Brendan was just drinking him in, that they were heading quickly into that phase of intimacy which started with a touch, and ended up with them very very closely entwined indeed. His lips were open. He was part smiling.

"So," Brendan said, changing tack, "you did miss me, then?" He kept up the stroking, and watched Stephen melting in front of him.

"Maybe," he said, raising an eyebrow, his arms sliding around Brendan's neck, so that their faces were close.

"Yeah?" Brendan said to him, quietly. "Wanna show me how much?"

He watched Stephen's face fall into a rapt smile, and felt himself pulled into a kiss.

It was easy. It was just so easy, loving Stephen. He had made such a fucking meal of it really, it had come up out of leftfield and blindsided him, left him numb and a bit concussed. But it was easy, really, once you stopped fighting it. Easy to pick him up, feel legs wrapping round his waist, and carry him through to the bedroom. Easy to kiss him. Easy to strip off his clothes. Easy to feel Stephen's hands inside his own, pushing them off, unbuttoning, unzipping, Stephen's hand sliding into his pants, closing around him and causing a rush of molten heat, and a laugh from Stephen's mouth, as he got a low growl of pleasure in response. Easy to push him down onto the bed, and climb on top of him, and kiss him all over. Easy to rub his nose into the soft hair of Stephen's belly and groin. Easy to take Stephen's cock in his mouth and hear his intake of breath. Easy to taste him, and keep tasting him, tonguing his way up the shaft and over the top, hearing Stephen whimper. Easy to push apart Stephen's legs and push in a finger, and then a second, and hear him give a cry. Easy to come back up to face him, and tell him to shut up, or he'll wake the whole street, and kiss him, and keep kissing him, Stephen's hands in his hair, and his own cock fully hard against Stephen's. Easy to put Stephen's legs over his shoulders, and push his way in, and hold it, right there, looking down at him, flushed, breathing heavily, feeling the insane pressure of Stephen's body close around him, pulsing. Easy to use his strength and body weight to start moving, and to bend down and to kiss Stephen's face while he did, and to hush the noises that were coming out of his mouth. Easy to fuck him, and to keep fucking him, to feel their bodies moving together, hot, and needy. Easy to feel that this – connecting with this young guy's body, losing himself in it, drowning in it, this particular guy, so ordinary, so beautiful, so damaged, but who had saved himself – this was what he was born to do, when push came to shove.

Much harder not to do any of those things. So much harder. He had tried, god knows he had, but it came to no good.

As he moved on top of him, the cross he always wore on a chain hung down over Stephen's chest, glinting in the light from the lamp. Brendan felt the familiar bounce of it against his chest as he pushed on forwards, letting pure pleasure take him over. One of Stephen's hands reached up and pressed the cross against his chest hair, trapping it between his palm and Brendan's skin. Just for a moment or two. And then he felt both of Stephen's hands slide down to his hips, and start to pull him in, hard. It was a bit like a fight, this. He was the dominant one, obviously. But Stephen, in all his sweaty, abandoned, spread-eagled glory, had his own power, that came from just submitting and letting it happen. And he used it to great effect.

Eventually, Brendan let Stephen bring himself to climax, just for the pleasure of watching him do it, moaning, ecstatic, shooting over his chest and belly, and letting the muscle contractions that vibrated through Stephen's body take Brendan over as well, his eyes darkening, his body fluid and surging with energy that transferred itself into Stephen, feeling a sense of release in which his only reference points were the grip of Stephen's hands on the muscles of his back, and his cries.

After the long, pulsing moment faded, their bodies relaxing, together, into stillness, he withdrew carefully, and threw himself down on his back, panting. He was aware that Stephen was doing the same beside him. He turned his head to look at him. Stephen looked exhilarated, satisfied, and more than a bit smug.

"Anyone would think _you'd _missed _me_," Stephen said. "You should go away more often."

Brendan laughed, half dismissive, half just a little bit like he'd been caught out, and opened up an arm to him. Felt Stephen come to lie in close by his side.

They lay there together, listening to the silence in the house and the beating of their own hearts.

Brendan felt an intense desire for sleep wash over him, the exhaustion of the day, and the post-coital relaxation taking its toll. But he became aware of a noise, coming from somewhere. Drip. Drip, drip, drip. It went on.

He turned to Stephen.

"What the fuck is that noise?" he asked him.

"Kitchen taps," Stephen said, glumly. "Been getting worse for ages. Lee tried to fix them. Now they're worse than before."

Brendan shook his head. "This flat is falling apart, Stephen."

"Well, it's all we can afford," Stephen said, barely even bothering to be defensive.

Brendan looked at the ceiling. "I was thinking you should move in with me," he said.

There was a pause. He was aware that Stephen was looking at him.

"What?" Stephen asked him.

"You heard." Brendan found it hard to bring himself to repeat it.

"What," Stephen said, cautiously, as if he was expecting a change of heart at any second, "move in? Really?"

Brendan shrugged his shoulders, slightly. "Half your crap is round at my place, anyway."

Because he now had a pile of Stephen's trainers in the corner of his room, a supply of boxers, socks and T shirts cluttering up his drawers, and a revolting Lynx body spray in the bathroom cabinet which Brendan was trying to wean him off with a gift of CK1.

"But …" Stephen started, "what about Amy and the kids?"

"I don't think there's room for all of us, Stephen." He turned his head to look into Stephen's face, again. He was clearly struggling between desire and self-interest, and his life as a father. Brendan knew that feeling. "I'd never take you away from Leah and Lucas, you know that. You'd only be a stone's throw away. You could still stop over here sometimes."

Stephen started to look more hopeful. "Yeah?"

"Sure," Brendan said. "And there's a spare room at ours, if you want them to stop over there." Because Lynsey's old room was still empty, since she moved out to be with Riley Costello.

"You wouldn't mind?" Stephen asked him.

"Why would I mind?" Brendan said. "Your kids are great. Just … not every night, yeah?" He ran a hand over his eyes, tired.

"What about Amy?" Stephen asked.

"Amy's got this Lee Hunter fella to support her now, Stephen. They could probably do with the room. And you can give her money for the kids. There are ways."

"Mm," Stephen said. But he was still frowning. He was always looking for problems this boy. Brendan felt a familiar sense of slight exasperation. "But what'll Cheryl think?" Stephen asked him.

"Cheryl loves kids," Brendan said.

Stephen looked at him, sceptically. "I was thinking about me."

Brendan rolled onto his side, put an arm across him and pulled him closer. Bent his mouth to Stephen's shoulder and gave it a nip, felt him laugh, then felt it subside.

"Cheryl loves you, you know that," he said, into that shoulder, so smooth and golden and muscular.

"And … what about you?" he heard Stephen's voice, soft. Brendan smiled to himself.

"Yeah, I love you too." He felt Stephen's body relax in his arms. Amazing, the effect those words had.

There was a pause, while Stephen seemed to let this sink in, savouring it.

"Yeah," he said, his voice slightly muffled against Brendan's hair. "You're on, then." And it sounded like he was grinning from ear to ear, as if all those Christmases he'd never got to enjoy had finally come at once.

* * *

He wasn't sure why it would feel different, Stephen rocking up to the door with him, carrying a couple of bags, while he carried another slung over his shoulder – but it did. They had stood outside this door many times before. They had stood outside the door just like this the very first time, Brendan trying to get his keys into the lock, Stephen behind him, pushing, laughing, drunk.

"Let's go dancing … yeah …" he'd said, boogying on the spot in his own special, completely arrhythmic way.

But Brendan had had a different kind of dancing in mind, back then. And later, after some tuition, Stephen had found his groove. His own particular rhythm.

Now, he was grumbling, but happily. "I don't know where I'm gonna put all my stuff," he said.

Brendan rolled his eyes as he fitted the key into the lock. "Stephen, you barely own enough underpants to get through a week. I don't think it's gonna be a problem."

He was relieved, as they stood on the landing, that the face of Stephen's now not-so-recent ex wasn't about to appear in the doorway of the next door flat. Brendan wouldn't have cared all that much, but it was inconvenient. Luckily, he'd shipped out. Told his mates he was trying his luck for a job back down in London, and got back on the bus. Stephen had been mildly guilty when he'd heard, but hardly inconsolable. Brendan had made a special effort to console him. It had been pretty effective.

The door gave way to the key, and swung open. Brendan took all the bags and tossed them through the door into a stack, just inside. Held the door open, for Stephen.

"Go on, then," he said.

Stephen was hesitating. He shuffled his feet, just a bit.

"What is it?" Brendan asked him. He peered inside the door. "Cheryl's not sitting around in her undies, if that's what you're afraid of."

Stephen frowned. "No, it's just …" He looked awkward. Embarrassed.

"Spit it out, Stephen," Brendan said. He loved him, god knew it, but he still had the power to drive him to distraction.

Stephen screwed up his nose a bit. "Aren't you going to …" he gestured, vaguely, with his hands, "you know?"

Brendan furrowed his brow and looked at him for what felt like a long time, as he tried to work out what was in Stephen's head. It didn't take all that long, in the end. He sighed.

"Stephen. You're not seriously saying you want me to carry you over this threshold?" He looked around them. This was nuts. He had invited someone nuts to come and live with him. In his home.

Stephen shrugged and screwed up his face. "No one's looking."

"Oh sweet Jesus," Brendan said, still holding the door open, looking down at the floor.

"Forget it, then," Stephen said to him. "Stupid idea." But he sounded disappointed.

Brendan looked up at him. "Honestly," Stephen said. "Forget it. It's dumb." He was wearing his "don't worry about me, I'm fine" expression. The one that said he didn't think that what he wanted really mattered. It hurt Brendan, for some reason, that face. It mattered to him, what Stephen wanted. He mattered.

He turned, suddenly, and propped the door open, and advanced towards him.

"Come here, quick," he said.

"What?" Stephen said.

"Come here," he said, holding out his hands.

"No," Stephen seemed to be backing away.

"You said you wanted it," Brendan said.

"It's daft," Stephen said.

"Yeah," Brendan said, bending down, "well, be careful what you wish for."

He put one arm under his knees, one under his shoulders, and lifted Stephen up.

"Fuck!" he heard Stephen say, but he was laughing, and Brendan felt Stephen's arm go around his neck.

"Mind your head," Brendan said to him, manoeuvring him in through the door. He kicked it shut behind him, and carried Stephen a few steps into the flat. He'd been meaning to dump him onto a sofa, make him scream, but he stopped, and looked at him. Stephen's face was laughing, but rapt. He was holding on round Brendan's neck.

They looked at each other, catching their breath. Stephen suddenly looked a bit embarrassed, as if he realised the ridiculousness of what they'd just done.

"You can put me down, now," he said. But it didn't sound like he wanted it, really.

"Maybe I don't want to put you down," Brendan said.

They held each other's gaze, for a long moment.

It had always just been him. Always. Him, alone. Him and the boys, when they were born. Those two were the only people in the world he had ever felt really connected to, like they were part of each other. There had been others, sure – Cheryl, and Eileen. But they had never really known him, who he was. No one had. Now, it seemed like everyone knew who Brendan Brady was, or thought they did. Not just his sister and his wife, but Warren, and Mitzeee, and Pete, and Alan, from his past, and Stephen's people – Amy, mainly. It always seemed to come back to Amy. Christ, even Leah knew who he was now.

But only this young guy, who he was holding right now, really knew him. He hadn't told him everything about his life – there was time for that. But only Stephen understood where the darkness came from. And what could happen to you if you didn't learn to look it in the eye.

It was Stephen who'd lain in his bed with him one morning, after sex, his body flushed, lips swollen, his eyes shining, and his face full of serious satisfaction, and watched Brendan reach for the bedside table and clip back on the cuff bracelet that he wore. Stephen sat up, his hair mussed, his chin on Brendan's shoulder, and ran his fingers over it.

"Why'd you always wear that?" Stephen asked him.

"I dunno," Brendan shrugged. It had been a present, on his birthday, from Eileen and the boys, when he'd turned thirty. He'd been crossing a threshold, she'd said. He should mark it. He grinned, now, at Stephen, chewing his ever-present gum. "Keeps me safe."

But Stephen didn't laugh. He just reached across and unclipped it from his wrist again.

"I'll keep you safe, now," he'd said, and clasped it around his own wrist instead.

He'd worn it all that day, at work. Brendan had kept catching glimpses of it whenever Stephen reached out his hand for something. When night came, Brendan had stripped Stephen's clothes off, lain him down, and was kissing his way along the inside of his arm where he was sensitive, from his armpit to his wrist, and he stopped at the cuff. It was too big for him really, but it did things to him, seeing it on his wrist. He would fuck him, he thought, wearing just this. Looked down at him. God, he was gorgeous. No one had ever turned him on as much as this boy. No one.

Stephen had looked up at him, as Brendan pinned both of his wrists down onto the bed, one of his hands closing over the cuff, and leant in close above him.

"See?" Stephen had said, smiling. "Nothing bad happened today. Don't need it when you've got me." And had let himself be kissed, his body arching up to be taken.

It was crazy, really, all of this. It was insane, crazy, unbelievable for Stephen to be moving in with a man who'd laid hands on him, hurt him. And yet it felt completely right. And it was equally insane, if not more so, for Brendan to take this young guy into his life. He had done terrible things to him. And for him. It was insanely risky, for both of them. But then Brendan had always been a little crazy, he knew it. And Stephen just seemed to trust that it would be all right.

"Don't then," Stephen was saying, now. "But if you drop me, this was all your idea, Brendan."

"I won't drop you," Brendan said, looking at his face. "I've got you."

Stephen tightened his arms around Brendan's neck. His face was close.

"I know," he said.

And that was when Brendan knew for sure. Something that he hadn't got as far as admitting to himself just yet. But which was staring him right in the face. And it didn't worry him at all.

He was in new territory. And there was no letting go now.


End file.
